For War is Kind
by Greekhoop
Summary: When it rains, people get wet. When the lights are out, it's hard to see what's right in front of you. In an alternate universe, Sagara survives the massacre of the Sekihoutai thanks to the intervention of an enigmatic stranger. COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

**For War is Kind ~ Prologue**

Freezing rain knifed through the pine trees, soaking the packed earth of the forest path. It had been pouring steadily since late afternoon, the most recent storm in a long, wet autumn, but even this icy rain was preferable to the snow that had been threatening to begin for nearly a week now. Occasionally, a flurry would spiral down to break the monotony, dusting the forest floor with a fine coat of white, like morning frost in the middle of the day.

But stubbornly the weather clung to the last threads of fall, and as soon as the rain started again, the snow never lingered long.

Fifty were soldiers on the road to Kyoto, about fifty in total. They were a shabby company in frayed and patched crimson coats, stained with mud and soaked to the skin. Once, it might have been unusual to see people out on a night like this, but seven years had come and gone since the first fighting and broken out and by now there had been plenty of opportunities to become accustomed to the sight of men in uniform. Though they had been on the march for some time now, their spirits were high. Their ranks buzzed with conversation of the kind that did not come easily to hardened veterans, but was natural for those new to battle.

Sagara Souzou felt fortunate that they should be blessed with such high spirits tonight. It was late and he was weary; it was chilly and he shivered. Mud sucked at his boots, drawing each step in to the ankle, releasing it reluctantly, with a sound like a kiss. But even now, he couldn't keep away the tiny smile that kept returning to his lips every time he let his guard down.

Often, he could go along time without thinking about it, but then it would hit him again all at once: all of this belonged to him. These men, his comrades; their sleepy good humor; the good news they carried with them; the weapons they so rarely had to unsheathe. This was his legacy.

"Captain?" A timid voice came from the level of his elbow, followed by a tug on his sleeve, and Sagara looked down into the boy's dark eyes.

"Yes, Sanosuke?"

"Are we almost there?"

"Almost. Are you tired?"

"Only a…" Sanosuke trailed off, swallowing a yawn. "A little."

Sagara gestured to a point just beyond the crest of the next hill where the low-hanging clouds were stained with a dull yellow glow. "See those lights? That's where we're going."

"That's not so bad," Sanosuke said. His smile brightened, and the rain seemed to recede a bit before it. "I bet you can even see it once we get over this hill."

Without any more warning than that, he bolted.

"Sanosuke!" Sagara tried to protest, but already it was too late; the boy was gone.

Sagara could have laughed, but it wasn't right for a commander to betray emotion so easily. It was improper for him to show too much. So he bit his lips until he reached the top of the hill, where Sanosuke was waiting for him in the dry shadows beneath a willow tree.

The boy sprang to his feet as Sagara approached, pointing down the slope. "See? I was right."

Through the rain, the Kyoto city gates were visible, open and welcoming as familiar arms.

"So you were," Sagara said. "Now, why don't you run ahead and find us somewhere to stay?"

"Yes, Captain." Sanosuke bowed smartly, and then he took off again, sliding a little on muddy downward slope. Once, his feet threatened to go out from under him, but he caught himself, and the wind blew scraps of his laughter back to Sagara's ears.

It would be another twenty minutes, the captain guessed, before the mud beneath their feet gave way to paving stones. When compared to all the walking they had done the past few days – and all the sleeping on wet pine needles – that was nothing, and Sagara was glad he had decided to march them the rest of the way into town tonight.

He had done the right thing.

Nothing much frightened Sagara anymore, save that he would steer these men under his care wrong. They had given him command of these troops as though it were a trivial matter, and perhaps to them it seemed that way, but Sagara could not agree. He knew that this was anything but trivial. The Sekihoutai hadn't seen much combat in the six months since its formation - nothing like the bloody battles Sagara himself had seen while he carried a sword for the Revolution - but what they were doing was more important than war.

He believed that; it wasn't just something he told the men on rainy nights like this one. What they carried with them now was peace. Resolution. Proof that even governments were transitive, and even Emperors weren't infallible.

Compared to that, fighting was the trivial thing as far as Sagara was concerned.

The captain shook himself from his thoughts, glanced around, and was surprised to find Kyoto's walls towering above him. At his back, he could hear relieved laughter, sighs and groans as his men stretched their weary limbs, but before he could turn to join them, someone called out to him.

"Captain! Captain Sagara!"

He turned to meet Sanosuke as the boy reemerged from a side street.

"I found us a place," Sanosuke announced, beaming. "It's called the… The Aoi-Ya. That's it."

There was something about that name that struck Sagara as familiar. But he had heard a lot of names over the last five years, and he couldn't remember them all. He said it again to himself: Aoi-Ya. It had a warm sound, rolling and soft. Sagara could tell already, it would be as good as his men deserved, and more than they had dared to hope for.

He ruffled Sanosuke's hair affectionately. "Good work. Show me."

The inn the boy had found was only a few blocks from there, tucked away on a quiet side street and shadowed by gardens that glittered in the rain. As Sagara ascended to the porch, a slender woman with long black hair slid the panels open. With one hand, to indicate the rooms that had been set aside for them.

Her hair was down, her yukata bound hastily around her waist. Sanosuke had obviously awakened her from a sound sleep.

Sagara felt a brief, acute stab of pity for this woman. She looked like she hadn't slept soundly in weeks. He knew all too well what that felt like, and he tried to meet her eyes, offer her a quick, reassuring smile.

She looked away.

Sanosuke lingered a while about the entryway while the others wandered deeper into the inn. Sagara recognized the boy's expression at once; he was waiting for something. All it took was a few more words of praise, and a friendly clasp on the shoulder to convince him to be on his way.

The men withdrew. The sound of their boots on the tatami faded and their voices dulled to indecipherable murmurs.

And then Sagara realized that he was alone with the woman who had shown them in. He watched her carefully as she turned away from him, taking in the proud straitness of her spine, the determined set of her jaw. She moved slowly, and it occurred to him all at once that she was in pain.

The way she carried herself was unmistakable.

Sagara lowered his eyes. "I appreciate you letting us stay."

"It wasn't as though we had much of a choice." Her voice was even, without an edge, despite the venom implicit in her words.

"No. I couldn't blame you, for not wanting us here."

By then she was walking away, and he followed her a few steps. "My men are exhausted. We've been on the road for weeks."

"I can see that." She took a side door into the kitchen, hair swaying behind her like a pendulum as she moved. "You'll all catch your deaths if you don't stay somewhere, right?"

"It's possible." Sagara stopped in the doorway, letting his shoulders relax. Her voice hadn't been so forbidding just then. Or maybe it was just his imagination.

"I have to take care of them," he said. "The best I am able. Try to understand."

The woman's back was to him, but he watched her shoulders flex as she worked at something he could not see. Her movements were old, practiced, as if she had long ago learned the most efficient way of going about the task and she was loathe to waste any energy doing it any other way. Without looking at him, she said, "you're lucky that you're not like other soldiers."

"I don't know how I'm supposed to take that," Sagara admitted.

She turned back, and held out a white saucer of sake to him. Sagara took it appreciatively, sliding his thumb along the curve of the bowl. He could feel the heat, even through his gloves.

"Thank you." He took a swallow, savoring the feeling of the warmth going down. He drank again, more deeply the second time, and passed the saucer back.

She made not move to speak again, and so Sagara tipped his head to her in thanks and went out once more into the hall.

He knew now that he was exhausted. There hadn't been much doubt before, but he hadn't felt the sleepiness then, not when he was around people; when he was still moving, determined and single-minded. He stifled a yawn against the back of his hand.

Then he froze mid-step, his hand still pressed to his lips, the yawn dried up behind it. Sagara could feel that there were eyes on him, like two coals pressed against the nape of his neck, just where skin became visible above the collar of his uniform. He turned, slowly.

Shadowed like he was, Sagara could barely make out the young man's face. A ray of moonlight spilled through the open screen behind him, haloing him in pale silver without actually illuminating his features.

Just like a ghost.

Sagara's lips parted, but before he could speak the stranger said, "You're with the military."

"Yes." Sagara attempted a smile, but it was brittle as old leaves, and it blew away just as quickly. "I am."

"This inn has a good reputation," the stranger said. "It doesn't need any trouble."

He stepped forward, just once, but far enough to cast the light across his features a little differently. At that moment, Sagara was rendered speechless. He couldn't even be surprised that the stranger's feet had made no sound on the wooden floor when he moved. For there was something about the boy's blue eyes that pierced Sagara's heart. He was laid open by the restless energy in them, and pinned in place by that same force.

"It was not our intent to cause any," Sagara said, as soon as he was certain he could speak. "We'll be gone in the morning."

The stranger's lips twitched; they were delicate as a doll's but as stern as a general's. "I'll have to insist on that."

"Really?" Sagara said. Suddenly, and for no real reason at all, Sagara found himself biting back a smile. The stranger was young; older than Sanosuke but still a boy. He was just a child, sneaking around in the shadows after all the lights had been extinguished. Sagara couldn't be blamed for laughing.

"And who might you be?" he asked.

The stranger narrowed his eyes, long dark lashes catching stray moonlight and splitting it in slats over his cheekbones. "I want your men out of here. By dawn."

Sagara watched him turn to depart, and he raised his hand to the stranger's receding back. "My name's Sagara. Will you remember it?"

The boy said nothing. A shadow at the end of the hall swallowed him up and he was gone.


	2. Chapter 1

**For War is Kind ~ Chapter 1**

Sagara held himself very still, savoring the few peaceful moments he yet had before dawn.

No one else was awake yet, but he was accustomed to these early mornings. The first sixteen years of his life had been spent working his father's small and barren plot of land. Eventually, crops had grown there, the fields had flourished, but Sagara had never been able to shake the habit of rising as soon as the sky in the east began to lighten.

He drew a deep breath of cold morning air. Sometime during the pre-dawn hours, the snow had stopped at last, and the damp earth and water-swollen pines smelled clean, as though a fine layer of gray dust had been swept from all the surfaces of the forest.

Sagara remembered that he had dreamed last night, of something he had never dreamt before. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, trying to recall… And then a lingering drop of water slid from one of the cedar boughs above his head to splash against the bridge of his nose.

Sagara blinked once, startled, and then he was laughing to himself, soft and low, hoping it was quite enough that it wouldn't wake the others. The water rolled over the hollow below his eye, tracing the line of his cheekbone downward. It collected in the corner of his mouth, and he tasted minerals.

It had been that boy from Kyoto, the stranger at the inn. He had dreamed of him, Sagara realized, and a slight frown came to tug at his lips. Those blue eyes hadn't been so strange that they should have stayed with him for the past two months.

Maybe, Sagara thought, he was haunted. The boy was a phantom, after all, or he might as well have been for the way he had slid so easily in and out of existence. The way he had spoken, softly, but with so much purpose. Sagara knew he should have been intimidated; the boy had wanted to intimidate him. But all his malice had faded away, like the sound of rain outside a dry room will disappear if it's ignored for long enough.

Sighing, Sagara shook his head. He couldn't trust himself in these early hours, when he was the only thing conscious save a few birds, and even they were still groggy.

Phantoms, indeed. He must have been the most gullible, unprofessional captain in the whole damn country.

"You're up early, Captain."

Sagara started a little; he must have drifted more than he had thought if he hadn't been alerted by footfalls on fresh snow. collecting his wits, and reached for the coat he had hung in the branches of a cedar tree the night before.

"Not so early," he said, shrugging into red coat. "I haven't been awake long."

"It's not even light yet." Ichiro Daisuke, Sagara's lieutenant, circled around in front of him, cocking a hand on his left hip. He was yet young – only a few years Sagara's senior – but the scars that crossed his body spoke of the role he had played in the revolution. Sagara respected the man deeply, and trusted him with the implicit trust he would have liked to give freely, but knew he could not.

"But it is nice, don't you think?" Sagara said as he buttoned his coat.

"Maybe." Sometimes, Ichiro humored him, and Sagara didn't mind. "But not as nice as eight hours of uninterrupted sleep would be."

"What a baby," Sagara teased. He ran a hand back through his hair, flattening it neatly against the nape of his neck. "But we are near Kyoto again, so you just might get your wish."

"I felt so welcome there last time."

Sagara's gaze escaped the other man's, but it only took a moment for him to recover his smile. "It wasn't so bad. I thought they were really warming up to us."

"What gave you that idea?"

Sagara didn't answer immediately. He knew the Ichiro was only was only joking with him, was only needling, but his words had hit against something that was more sensitive than Sagara would have cared to admit. His thoughts turned briefly to the boy, who had been so abrupt, so cold, in his dismissal of them.

"Lieutenant?" Sagara slid a hand over the rough bark of the cedar tree, feeling it bite him through his gloves. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

Ichiro shook his head, his eyes growing dark. "Haven't we both seen our fair share of ghosts, Sagara?"

The captain shivered a little, in spite of himself. "I suppose maybe we have," he said, "but that's not quite what I meant."

He drew a deep breath, for composure. It sounded foolish, now that he said it aloud, but that moment in the hallway when pale gaze had met pale gaze, icy blue on placid gray… He couldn't leave it alone.

He tried again. "I mean, do you think that there are such things as spirits that are so angry, or discontent, or miserable that not even death can put them at peace?"

"Sagara?" Ichiro's brow knit in confusion. "What's this about?"

"I'm not quite sure," Sagara admitted with a sigh. "Maybe just something I dreamed."

Ichiro watched him closely for a moment, as though he expected something in Sagara's expression to betray his true intent. At last, he shook his head once more. "No. No, I don't. I think we have enough to worry about without believing that even the dead can't find any peace."

"I see." Sagara went back to arranging the gear he had forgotten a moment ago. "I suppose you're probably right about that much."

He was prepared to leave it there; he could have let the whole matter fade into insignificance then, but Ichiro moved a bit closer, tilting his head to catch Sagara's downcast eyes. "My son," he said quietly.

Sagara looked up. "Daisuke?"

"I haven't seen him in seven years," Ichiro continued without raising his voice much. "I used to write letters to him all he time, when the fighting was at its worst, even though I knew they'd never make it back to him. Want to know what I used to say to him, Sagara?"

"I…" Sagara hesitated. Ichiro's words sounded like a lecture, and he hadn't been looking for that. But before he could change the subject or find a way to evade it, he was saying, "I do."

"I told him that everything I had suffered, I would gladly suffer it all again, if it meant he would never have to. Captain…" He leaned forward intently, so abruptly that Sagara wondered how he would maintain equilibrium, and he caught one of Ichiro's hands in his own to steady him. "The only way you'll become a ghost, is if you needlessly allow yourself to stop living."

Sagara stifled a smile. It was absurd advice, but at least it meant that Ichiro hadn't understood what he was really trying to get at. That, he would not have liked to explain.

"Thank you," he said softly. "I'll remember that you said that."

And then Ichiro looked away; the tension between them broke cleanly, like a twig from a pine branch. He laughed a little, and it set them both at ease. "You're still young, Sagara. You're an idealist, and that's why you fight this battle so well."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment," Sagara admitted.

"Maybe it isn't." Ichiro shrugged. "It's the truth, though."

Sagara bent to retrieve his swords from where he had tucked them into his bedroll the night before. He clicked one a few inches out of the sheath, enough to inspect the blade, before buckling it into place at his hip.

"That's all I've ever asked for."

* * *

It felt like he had been awake for hours. This early in the morning – in the cusp between full dark and true light – time always progressed strangely. Behind closed screens, the rest of the inn's patrons slept on, and Aoshi's passage down the halls from the practice yard, where a slow procession of forms had barely warmed him against the morning chill, was stealthy and soundless.

Sometimes, if he concentrated hard enough, he could hear muffled noises through the walls: a cough, a sigh of breath, the rustle of someone turning in his sleep. This pre-dawn voyeurism was a guilty pleasure of his, even though the very concept of pleasure was strange to him, something that had never quite seemed to fit.

He was no longer a child, but it seemed adulthood had crept up on him; he had never felt conscious of an actual shift. Only now the men who had been infants when he had been an infant, who had been children when he had been a child, were no longer alone when they walked in the street. Pretty, frail women – like small birds – seemed always at their elbows, across from them in the little restaurants that lined Kyoto's sidewalks.

Something had changed while he had been absent in the capital, but he knew better than to blame it on the city. A revolution could never be stopped, after all. Not once it had been set in motion. That was what he had learned during his time in Edo.

He thought sometimes that it would only take the slightest effort to be jealous of these boys, but then he realized that it was an effort he could never make. His life had not been his own in a long time. Willingly he had broken it to pieces, and divided the shards amongst the few men and women who remained to follow him.

Aoshi stopped by his room to deposit his _kodachi_. Even in such a familiar setting - the only place he had ever come to associate with feeling safe - he hated being unarmed. But times had changed, and it wouldn't do if one of the patrons saw him carrying a blade.

He leaned the sword in the corner, then hesitated a moment, staring at it. He knew he should have kept it in the cabinet or tucked in his mattress; should have concealed it. But Aoshi was not ashamed of what he had done. He started to turn, then a voice from the door halted him mid-step.

Aoshi flinched, imperceptibly; only one man could have crept up on him.

"I know you're not just going to leave that there," Okina said.

Aoshi tilted his chin back a little, a gesture which call to mind defiance. "Master, I'm not going to cower before these men."

"No one's asking you to. But there's no shame in being cautious."

"I'm not a child anymore," Aoshi said, but he snatched up the blade all the same, and thrust it into the little cabinet in the corner. "Don't treat me like I don't know…"

"And you don't have to prove anything to us, so stop acting as though we're strangers." Okina turned to go, deliberately, and Aoshi glanced at him over his shoulder. He hadn't known the matter was at an end.

"Breakfast is ready whenever you are, by the way," the elder man said, and then he vanished.

Aoshi crossed the room to tug the screen shut behind him. Back in these walls, he felt always as though he was being watched. It was unfounded paranoia, and he knew he could not afford to let his composure falter on account of it. But Aoshi could feel the slight tension around his eyes, the compression of his lips that bespoke frustration. If Okina, the best of them, didn't understand what troubled him, then what hope did Aoshi have of finding understanding at all?

It was a thousand little things, all stacked against him. The uniform he was no longer able to wear in public, the blade he had to hide… And soldiers. Soldiers of the new government had stayed here, had slept in his home. The blow that had dealt to his pride had hurt more than any injury he had received on the battlefield.

Why had he spent all that time in the capital, away from everything familiar? Why had he suffered betrayal, shame, if, in the end, it had all amounted to nothing? He had lost so many comrades, only to end up right back where he had begun, enduring the same dull domestic bliss he had all those years ago.

The others told him there was nothing he could have done, that the same fate would have befallen any of them had they been in his position. But Aoshi wasn't just one of them; he was the best. He should have turned out the best results.

When he turned a little, Aoshi caught a glimpse of his face in the small mirror that hung near the doorway. He looked pale.

Furiously, he shook his head to drive away the last of his lingering uncertainty, or, rather, to force it deep inside once more. That was where it belonged, a place where no one else would know of its existence. He looked once more into the glass, and he was satisfied by his expression: it was calm. Thus assured, Aoshi went out into the hallway, following the path Okina had taken.


	3. Chapter 2

**For War Is Kind ~ Chapter 2**

The troops stirred slowly to life that morning, filling the air intermittently with the clinking of weaponry being buckled into place, the humming of conversation. Sagara left them to break camp, and climbed the small bluff to the north. It was a good vantage point; they had combed this area well already, but he wasn't going to miss any of the tiny homesteads tucked into the pine groves.

The clouds had broken for a moment, and fresh sunlight warmed the frozen ground. As the sky began to grow light, lazy plumes of smoke from cottages in the foothills below him faded slowly into existence, intermittently breaking the white of the sky at dawn. Sagara knew that if he were a little nearer he would be able to hear the shuffling of bedding being tucked away, the hiss of water for tea being put to boil. Mornings like this always made him a bit nostalgic. He could almost feel the freshly lit fire melting the chill from the air, smell the cooking rice. These modest farms sprawled like toys at his feet now, but it hadn't been so many years that he couldn't remember what it was like to call one of them home.

Sagara smiled faintly. The slight tug he felt, this affinity, it was to be expected. The expanse of sky that stretched out before him was tangible as a wall, something impregnable standing between him and the simple warmth, simple comfort, of the farmhouses below.

The longing was always there – a spike beneath his ribcage, a bit of wire under his tongue – but it was times like this that made it sting all over again.

Five years ago, it had been a day just like this; winter, but right on the edge of something warmer. There wasn't much work to be done around the farm because of the snow, but the cold made what work there was twice as hard. There were whispers of fighting to the south, and for nearly a week now the sky over Edo had been stained red by flames at night, and bruised by plumes of smoke during the day.

In idle moments, when he knew he was alone, Sagara found his gaze drawn there. For months, he had been plagued by the need to move, to act, anything. It felt as though if he stayed in the same place for even one year, one season more, this wanderlust would gut him.

Despite his conviction, it had taken three days to gather the courage to speak those five simple words – "I'm going to the capital" – to his family. Perhaps by that point he had become so used to the way they sounded when he played them over in his mind that he wasn't prepared to hear them at last spoken aloud. A soft gasp chased them from his lips, and his eyes widened a little as he waited for judgment.

For some reason, it seemed he had expected tears, had prepared himself for tears, but there was nothing like that. Only a quiet glance his mother and father had exchanged, and then two sets of eyes turned upon him, dark and accusing, as if he had violated some unspoken contract. It was the only thing he hadn't been prepared for, and Sagara wondered even now how he'd held his ground.

"But you're just a child…" Back then, he didn't known how true those words. At sixteen years old, Sagara had lived all the life that ten acres of farmland had to offer, and so he did not know the truth until the first time he felt his blade found the soft hollow between ribs. Until the instant he looked down and his senses were saturated with the blood that soaked his shirtfront, wide and damp and gaping; red, like a woman's mouth.

Until the first moment a sword kissed his own flesh, and he felt the crush of mortality, dragging him down like a drowning man's boots.

Sagara shook his head, a few narrow lines appearing around his eyes as his brows drew together in annoyance. He should have been able to distance himself from memories like that, keep them as far away as the plumes of smoke that curled from hearths far beneath his feet. What he did now was the closest thing that could be done to washing away all the blood of the past seven years.

Sighing, Sagara tilted his chin back slightly, searching the pale sky for something to center his wandering thoughts. He found only the endless sprawl of clouds, rimmed in fresh sunlight. It was shaping up to be a beautiful morning, and the moment he heard the trill of a voice calling his name from the hill below he knew he hadn't wanted to spend it alone.

"Sanosuke." He greeted the boy as, panting, he crested the bluff.

"Good morning, Captain," Sanosuke said brightly, bending slightly at the waist and planting his palms on his knees while he caught his breath. He straightened, and followed Sagara's gaze to the horizon. A few hazy ribbons of sunrise still stained the clouds over the mountains in the east, bright against the hard gray of the winter sky. "Someone's looking for you, you know."

Sagara chuckled softly. "Would 'someone' happen to be your lieutenant?"

"No." Sanosuke shook his head emphatically. "I've never seen him before. He's too mean to be a friend of yours; I think you should go see what he wants. He says he's been sent by the Government General…"

This was something new. Sagara had lost track of how many months had passed since he had last been contacted by a commanding officer. It was beginning to feel like they had been forgotten out here.

Sagara glanced down at the boy. He was too young yet to keep the emotion from painting itself clearly in his eyes, and Sagara felt a sudden and inexplicable stab of shame at being able to read him so easily. Something had unsettled him, and Sanosuke was nervous in the vague and embarrassed way the very young become nervous when they aren't quite certain what has caused their apprehension.

Sagara's eyes grew a little thinner, and abruptly he turned. A gauzy curtain of shed snow clung to the tree limbs, making it hard to see through to the road below. "Show me, Sanosuke."

Somewhere, distantly, he could hear the sound of hooves on packed earth. And though he had never before thought it an ominous sound, this time around it sent a chill down his spine. He shook his head faintly, as though suddenly confused, and when he looked again Sanosuke had begun to descend the hill.

He must have hesitated, because the next thing he heard was Sanosuke calling to him.

It only took a moment for Sagara to find his smile, warm and reassuring, again. This was foolish; Sanosuke couldn't have known how fortunate the arrival of new orders was, but Sagara did. He knew better than this, didn't he?

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he said lightly. "You're too quick for an old man like me."

Sanosuke laughed and bolted ahead, boots skidding a little on the snowy path. As they neared the foot of the hill, the pounding of hooves from somewhere further down the path became audible once more, and the boy drew back a little, to Sagara's hip.

A man with a mane of coarse white hair and an immaculate uniform that immediately made Sagara aware of the sorry state of his own coat and boots drew his mount to a halt just before them. He nodded shortly. "You're Sagara, I take it."

When his answer came in the form of just a slight narrowing of gray eyes, he nodded again and continued. "My name is Tatewaki Shindou, staff officer of the government army. I come from headquarters at Shimosuwa."

* * *

"Well?"

Sagara started, damn near biting clean through his lower lip, which he had been worrying thoughtfully between his teeth. He couldn't stand people sneaking up on him, and if he wasn't mistaken, this was the second time this morning.

"Well what?" he asked, and ran his tongue over his teeth to taste for blood.

Ichiro didn't look at him as he spoke, which Sagara found a little disconcerting. "_Well_, are you going to tell me what's going on or not?"

"It's just as I said. I have orders to march to Shimosuwa. The Government General wishes to meet with us."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Ichiro sighed. "Sagara, doesn't it seem odd to you?"

Sagara frowned. He had to admit, he didn't know what the older man was trying to get at. "I suppose we are to be given new directives. I don't see anything odd about it."

"Shimosuwa is in the middle of nowhere. If we are receiving new orders, why is it so important that we march there to accept them?" Ichiro's expression tightened, and Sagara found himself at a loss for what the man was thinking.

He laughed, hoping it would set him at ease. "Well, I didn't think to question them, but I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation. If it has you so worried, I'll find out when we arrive. Satisfied?"

"I hope you're right, Captain."

Sagara paused; he couldn't laugh off the way Ichiro's voice had sounded just then. "What are you thinking?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Ichiro admitted. "But I do know that the hold the new government has on this country is still fragile; they can be as dangerous as cornered animals if they feel threatened."

"I still don't see what that has to do with…"

"Nothing," Ichiro interrupted, his eyes falling away. "Just be careful. Sagara."

There had been something deeply unsettling in Ichiro's tone just then. But by the time Sagara had thought over his words and collected himself enough to respond, the man had slowed, fallen back into the ranks.

* * *

"What do you think?"

It was quiet, and the sound of another voice – even one Aoshi had come to know so well – sounded somehow strange.

"Something is going to happen," he said simply, tilting his chin back to the chilly night breeze; his lips parted a little, as though to taste the air. All the recent snow had made it feel dry and light, against Aoshi's bare jaw and throat. He felt a chill rising over his shoulders and the back of his neck.

There was something on the wind tonight. Over the past few years, Aoshi had learned to trust the whispers his intuition sometimes spoke. The sounds of battle, the odor of blood. They were imperceptible to the conscious mind, but they registered somewhere deep down. If he concentrated, he would know they were there.

Hannya shifted a little, a step closer to him. "You're going?"

Aoshi nodded. "Of course."

He knew even now that by the time he traced the disturbance back to its source it was likely that there would be little left for him to do, but he couldn't leave it alone. Not when there was fighting in his territory.

"It's most likely nothing, you know."

"Most likely," Aoshi echoed, but even now he couldn't help but feel excited. He knew it was an anxiousness that was already destined to burn itself out when he ventured out of these city walls and found that there was nothing left for him. His hand drifted back absently to the hilt of his blade.

In the next instant, he had decided, and he stepped once, gracefully, away from the steps of the Aoi-Ya. The ground was dusted with white, dry snow that adhered to each of his footsteps, perfect indentations in the shape of his boots.

He didn't like that. Didn't like knowing that he would leave evidence of his passing in his wake. "Stay on your guard."

"Always," Hannya said, and though the tone of his voice didn't seem to change, Aoshi could hear subtle indignation. Of course he was cautious. He didn't need to be reminded.

Aoshi nodded slightly, and ventured out a few more steps. A stray gust of wind caught some of the fallen snow, spiraling it up and out. In the midst of that flurry, Aoshi faded effortlessly into the night.

He slipped out of the city by way of the northern gate. The slight shift in the breeze a moment before had carried with it the distant sounds of gunfire, ugly in its gracelessness, and unmistakable. Away from Kyoto's bright streetlamps, Aoshi found his way by moonlight, amidst the strange shadows it cast through the bare tree branches.

He didn't want to admit how deeply this moved him. He felt alive at last, fully and completely realized for the first time in months.

And the promise of an impending battle only thrilled him more.

It was an odd way to feel, but Aoshi refused to be ashamed of what he had become. Cold steel and warm blood and all the shades of slaughter that ran between, they had not been thrust upon him; he had chosen them, the most important choice he had ever made.

As he came upon Shimosuwa pass, Aoshi's glanced upward. The trees were thinner here, allowing more silvery moonlight to penetrate to the forest floor. He scowled defiantly up at the heavens.

The ghostly sounds of gunfire had led him on for what proved to be a long time now, and he refused to be given away by something so common as a brightly lit night. Aoshi pressed on, more cautiously than before, not even disturbing the low hanging pine boughs.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear the sound of rushing water. Though the gunfire had stopped, the sounds of the forest had not yet returned, as though frightened into submission, or humbled in remorse. Abruptly, Aoshi drew to a halt, tilting his chin back a little.

There was a metallic odor in the air. Unmistakable for anything but blood.


	4. Chapter 3

**For War is Kind ~ Chapter 3**

Consciousness came again, sudden as a slap to the face. In the first moment when he awoke and tasted blood, Sagara was certain he actually had been slapped. He raised a hand, reaching for his injured cheek, but a fiery pain in his arm arrested him. The world tilted sideways, and Sagara's vision bled red.

A thin, strangled cry seeped from his chest, and his hand fell to his shoulder, growing tight around bloodstained fabric. His clothing was soaked trough, making him shiver, leaving him numb. It was probably for the best, Sagara realized. Whatever was happening to him, he didn't want to feel it. Though he could no longer hear footfalls, shouting or gunfire from the woods behind him, he knew it was no miracle.

He was dying.

The snow around him was crystallized with blood. It was hard to draw breath. Weakly, he struggled, digging his heels into frozen earth as though to root himself to the spot, bind himself to what was solid and what was real. He gasped, small and straining like a sob, and his eyelids fluttered before widening once more.

He had memories like fragments; he couldn't quite give meaning to them, place his torn body and the smell of slaughter in any kind of timeline. All he knew was that he hadn't meant for this to happen. It was never supposed to end this way.

Pale silver filtered through the cedar trees; the pine bows sliced it to ribbons and abstract geometries, painting the forest floor in dark-bright patterns of light and shadow. The moon hung low in the sky tonight, impossibly low and heavy and luminous, and distantly Sagara wondered why he hadn't noticed it before.

And he thought that if he could only stretch out his hand just right, his fingertips would brush against a silk-smooth surface. Perhaps he would be free then. He lifted his hand from his shoulder, and abruptly a jet of blood from the bullet wound there soaked into his collar, spilled the taste of copper over his lips. He cringed away from it, head spinning and breath coming in sharp gasps.

His lips parted around a faint sob… abruptly choked off.

"Tell me your name and your affiliation."

Someone was speaking to him. It took Sagara a moment to realize it, over the rush of blood in his ears, that he wasn't alone here anymore. His eyes snapped open, but he could make out little more than the paper silhouette of a man crouching above him, severing the silvery columns of moonlight.

And though it sent another slick wave of blood coursing over his throat, into his hair, Sagara lifted his hand, seizing the collar of the stranger's uniform with more strength than he'd thought he had left.

"Don't hurt the boy," he gasped. "If you so much as touch him…" But that was all he could manage, and he broke off abruptly, shuddering and gulping deep breaths of cold night air.

The stranger recoiled slightly at the assault, but he recovered a moment later. "There's no boy here," he said. "And don't die before you tell me what happened."

Sagara felt his hand brushed away, and abruptly he grew very still, as if ashamed. He probably wouldn't last much longer, and this man certainly hadn't come here for this. Not to watch him shiver and writhe, not to see his eyes as he breathed his last.

The press of something soft against his injured shoulder made Sagara gasp, tug sharply away. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to stop the bleeding," the stranger said. He wrapped a length of cloth, cut from the long sash around his waist, around Sagara's wound. "There's still some life left in you, isn't there?"

As he leaned closer, his features came slowly into focus. He was familiar, somehow, though it was nothing Sagara could place immediately. Those cold blue eyes, porcelain lips, the upward tilt of his nose…

A shudder ran through him, raising a stinging pain in his shoulder. "You…"

He had been right after all, the boy really had been a ghost. A phantom, all along. Or perhaps an angel. Sagara felt his eyes cloud inexplicably with tears "It's so good you're here again."

Aoshi glanced up from his work and laid a blood-streaked hand on Sagara's brow, brushing a few dark locks from his eyes. "Be still," he ordered, and clamped his teeth around the end of the bandages so he could tie them off around the last deep wound in Sagara's thigh. "What happened to you?"

Sagara shifted faintly beneath Aoshi's fingertips. "I don't remember what happened," he managed. "I don't know…"

His eyes glazed. "The Sekihoutai…"

Aoshi leaned back, looking down at Sagara critically. "Why would a faction of the new government be…?"

And then he stopped, because he already knew the answer. "You were wiped out," he said softly. "And you're a fugitive. Just like us."

"I'm dead," he said, letting his head fall back. "Better leave this place, before they find you." If he could get out of here, tell the story of what had happened… He felt a weak spark in his chest, and he knew it was hope. "They'll be back this way soon. Just go."

"I'm not going to die tonight," Aoshi replied crisply. He hesitated a moment before adding, "And neither will you, if I have any say in the matter."

He tightened the bandages once more, and Sagara managed to not scream.

"Can you walk?" Aoshi asked.

"But…" Sagara protested weakly, even laying a bloodstained hand over Aoshi's and pushing it away. But when the time came to release the boy once more, he didn't dare let go. He couldn't, not when he had sounded so sure, so certain that he could get them both out of here alive.

"With your help," he conceded quietly. He swallowed hard, tasted salt. "Can you help me stand?"

Aoshi reached to tug one of Sagara's arms over his shoulders. He pushed them both to their feet, and kept very still as he waited for Sagara to regain his breath and balance.

"Hold onto me." He tugged Sagara close and dragged him back into the cover of the trees, trying to move slowly, though he walked with such purpose that Sagara stumbled with nearly every step.

He was sick and dizzy with blood loss, but Sagara was finding it much easier to drag himself back to the desire to live than to resign himself to die, and he felt impossibly alert. Aware of every sound, every whisper of foliage and ever shadow cast by the pale moon

Beside him, Aoshi shifted a little, as though suddenly uncomfortable. "I'm saving your life, you know. So I'm going to expect some answers."

"Oh." Sagara lifted his head weakly. "Maybe later."

"No," Aoshi said. "Now. We don't have far to go, but if you lose consciousness, you'll never make it. So you can start with your name."

"Sagara Souzou," he said. His voice was weak, but even, and a moment later, he spoke again, softly, "How am I? Where are you taking me?"

"Kyoto. And you'll last until we get there, at least." He was silent for a moment, thoughtful. "Sagara. I see."

There was a hint of recognition in Aoshi's voice, followed by an abrupt dismissal that made Sagara want to shrink from him. "What about you?" he asked. "Are you going to give me a name to go with the thanks for saving my life?"

Aoshi's eyes narrowed. "You don't need to know that yet."

After that, they both concentrated on moving forward. Aoshi's pulse and breath, though muted by layers of clothing, were steady, and Sagara felt oddly subdued by them. Soon, the walls of Kyoto appeared through the trees.

Aoshi dodged around the gate that led into the city. "Don't worry. I don't want to risk a trip through the streets just yet," he explained, though Sagara was hardly in any shape to have noticed. Aoshi took them instead around the western edge of the walls to a small hut just inside the treeline.

Upon seeing their approach, an elderly women lit a lamp in one of the dwelling's small windows and rushed out to meet them.

"Summon a doctor," Aoshi instructed. "A loyal one."

Clasping Sagara more firmly against him, he continued inside.

A bed lay prepared against the back wall, and Aoshi left Sagara there. "Try not to move too much," he said, and then was gone.

Sagara watched the boy depart as though through a tunnel, until he receded into the hazy pinpoint of light at its end. He sank back to the mattress, boneless and weary. The bandages Aoshi had wrapped around him were soaked through with blood by now, and he glided a hand over his chest to see if he could determine where he had been hit.

The entire front of his uniform was slick and cold, a thin sheet of crimson ice, and the ends of his hair were saturated with blood, stiff and wiry as an old paintbrush. His hand fell weakly away, curled around the edge of the mattress. He didn't feel much pain, not yet. It was the helplessness that ached the most.

With a quiet sigh, Sagara pressed his eyes shut. He kept them closed, even when Aoshi returned a moment later and pressed a ladle of water to his lips. "Drink this, if you're still awake."

Sagara did as he had been instructed, though the icy water stung his throat. Aoshi was patient, keeping a steady hand behind his neck until Sagara had finished and tilted his head back, coughing weakly.

"You shouldn't have done this…" he murmured, when the fit had passed.

Aoshi's eyes narrowed as he lowered him carefully back to the mattress. "Maybe not," he said. "But regardless, it's done."

"This is all my fault," Sagara continued, as though having not heard. "If I hadn't…"

But his voice was failing, and the rest was lost in a breathless sob.

"Stop it," Aoshi ordered, laying a hand against the side of Sagara's face. "There will be time for that later."

"Will there?"

"You might yet live. There's something strong in you. Something that struggles, even now."

Aoshi drew his short sword and began to cut Sagara's uniform away from his body. He undressed him, and threw the ruined clothes into the corner. "You won't need them anymore."

"I know," Sagara said. It shouldn't have bothered him, but still, to hear the words spoken so calmly in that boy's voice, so coldly, made him shiver His hands curled tightly into fists at his sides, and he closed his eyes, silently resigning himself to Aoshi's care.

It wasn't so bad. There were worse ways to die than this - than warm and safe with a beautiful boy watching over him. Sagara smiled, just faintly, but it was enough to make Aoshi pause.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

"Nothing. I just…" His eyes grew distant again, unfocused and dim. "I never knew ghosts were so considerate."

Aoshi tilted his head slightly, gazing down at the man as though seeing him for the first time. He measured fresh bandages, cutting them precisely, but when he leaned over Sagara, he seemed to hang back a moment.

You've lost a lot of blood," he said. "And you came close to freezing out in the forest. But you'll survive this."

He began to bind Sagara's wounds, starting with his shoulder and working down. "So much for a peaceful future."

Sagara's face twisted, thought not with pain. His eyes fell closed. "So much for it."

Aoshi seemed surprised by the sudden change in his tone. "You're in shock," he said, as he began to bandage the glancing wound on Sagara's hip. "It may not hurt much now, but you're going to be in a lot of pain, soon. You should rest while you can."

"All right." Sagara swallowed hard, collecting his emotions. Having Aoshi's hands on him like this, it wasn't so bad. He was grateful for it, and he would have liked to stay awake a moment more, just to see what the boy would do next. But he was weary. His eyes stinging for want of sleep, his body sore and unwilling to move. Exhaustion tugged at him, an insistent hand pressing against his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. Slowly, his body relaxed, fingers uncurling at his sides.

"So much for…" he whispered vaguely, but the words trailed off into a soft senseless murmur, and Sagara slept.


	5. Chapter 4

**For War is Kind ~ Chapter 4**

For two days now, the city had been tense. Word of fighting to the north had spread in ripples and whispers through the streets, and people were edgy. Soldiers had arrived, with lies and condolences already prepared on their lips. They had said it was a small matter, and now resolved. But why, then, did men in uniform still linger on the street corners? Why had the number of people carrying weapons doubled overnight?

Aoshi scowled. He didn't sleep well when he could feel something ominous, and he hadn't been sleeping well for the past few days. Ever since that night he had dragged Sagara out of the woods. But it wasn't just wariness that pulled him from rest hours before dawn each night; there was much to be done in the wake of the Sekihoutai's annihilation. Aoshi had demanded a full investigation be conducted before the event could be covered up completely, and he thrown himself wholeheartedly into the supervision of it.

When there was new information, he filed it away for later analysis.

In the end, he determined that there wasn't much that could have done about what had happened, but sometimes Aoshi found himself thinking of the man he had rescued from death that night. Sagara was at the Aoi-ya now. They had moved him at night, and at great risk with so many soldiers about.

In the end, that wasn't what was important. Sagara was safe now. Though he hadn't awoken yet, he talked in his sleep, and whimpered softly in protest when he was touched.

Omasu was certain he would live – though, she would add with a shake of her head, she wasn't sure how – and Aoshi was satisfied with that. He trusted her judgment; she was, after all, experienced in matters like this. More experienced than she should have been, but that was not her fault.

He knew that he alone was to blame for her skill in treating wounded soldiers.

Not for the first time, Aoshi wondered what good he had done. Perhaps Sagara could be useful to him as someone who now also had a reason to fight against the new government. But that wasn't exactly why Aoshi was pleased that he would live. He was glad, in a way, that Sagara had been betrayed, for now it was as though he held in his hands a force of pure vengeance.

It was late afternoon by the time Aoshi found a spare moment to visit the room where Sagara lay. All day, he had found himself wondering how he might be progressing. Aoshi had been shot enough times in the past himself to know that nothing hurt like a bullet wound trying to heal, and he wondered if Sagara was in much pain, or if perhaps the fever kept him far away from it.

Outside his room, Aoshi hesitated. One hand already on the screen, already in the process of pulling it back, he stopped, glanced down at the floor and his lower lip caught between his teeth. He was not looking forward to speaking with this man. He would ask why Aoshi had saved him, what he wanted in return. And Aoshi was annoyed by that prospect, because he didn't have any answers. All the same, he was compelled to enter, if only to reassure himself that Sagara really was doing well.

But even that didn't make much sense to him. He had Omasu's word that the man would live, and that should have been enough for him. Aoshi lingered a moment longer, suspended between logic, which told him to turn and walk away, and something else, something that was not logical, which compelled him to look inside, just to see.

"He would not be conscious yet."

Aoshi looked up. He had heard Hannya approach, had processed the knowledge of quiet, unthreatening footsteps and muted breathing in the back of his mind, all without interrupting his thoughts. He half-turned, not lifting his hand from the screen. The coarse material felt different today for some reason, warm against his skin, as though alive.

"I thought I should verify that for myself."

Hannya shook his head. "You speak as though you don't trust your own comrades."

Breathing a sigh, Aoshi withdrew his hand at last, slipped it into the pocket of his _gi_. "I trust my intuition."

"Oh?" Hannya folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. He tipped his head toward the room where Sagara lay. "And what does your intuition say about him?"

He should have been expecting a question like that, should have already had an answer prepared. But he had nothing, and he hesitated. "I'm not certain. I thought if I spoke with him, I might begin to understand…"

"Understand what?"

Aoshi lifted his chin. He didn't like the feeling that he was being interrogated, that his motives were in question. "How he can best serve us, of course," he said, and abruptly turned, starting down the hallway.

But a moment later Hannya was at his elbow once more, keeping pace with him. "Is that why you're so interested in him?"

"Interested…" Aoshi echoed. That certainly wasn't the word he would have used. He shook his head a little. "No. It's not what you're thinking."

"My apologies."

Aoshi glanced over his shoulder. It seemed there had been sarcasm lingering behind Hannya's voice, but he thought now that he had just imagined it.

"If I hadn't brought him here, he would be dead. And I didn't want him to die." Aoshi narrowed his eyes. "Because he's been betrayed. He's like us now."

"Is that right?"

Aoshi tensed. "I know what I'm doing."

"I suppose you do." Hannya tilted his head slightly, and for a long moment he was silent. "Well. Perhaps not _just_ like us."

And by the time Aoshi realized that the footfalls at his back were receding now instead of pacing him, Hannya had already vanished. He sighed. Now that he was alone again, the nagging urge to be at Sagara's side was fiercer than before. Aoshi shook his head; he didn't even glance back as he started once more down the hallway.


	6. Chapter 5

**For War is Kind ~ Chapter 5**

Days dragged by with nothing to give them perspective. Sagara would sleep, watch the slow progression of sunlight across the floor, would eat a little or drink when it was given to him.

They kept him heavily drugged. He felt numb, and when he was spoken to it was as if the voice came to him through a fog. The words meant little; they buoyed him out of sleep, and chased him into dreams too deep for remembrance, but giving them any actual significance was impossible.

The fever would not subside. It spiked in the evenings and his eyes grew distant, his gaze pierced the western wall and seemed focused on something a hundred miles away.

He babbled about ghosts.

Gradually, his memory came back to him. A thousand disjointed images drew slowly into cohesion. And when the moment came that he at last recalled everything, a sword through the ribcage would have been more welcome.

The woods near Shimosuwa Pass were close enough to Kyoto that Sagara had been able to see, through breaks in the tree line, the dusting of city lights on the low hanging clouds. That had comforted him for some reason. He had felt peaceful. For the moment, the snow had stopped.

Words had been passed; he had spoken in anger. Had he really said all those things? Had he really taken that long to realize?

After that, things weren't as clear. He remembered vertigo, the sensation of falling from a great height, though the ground never seemed to come any closer. A crimson stain crawling slowly outward from his boots.

"Don't faint." A hand tightened around his wrist, drawing him closer to the urgent words hissed against his ear. "Sagara! Don't faint."

He fell against Ichiro's shoulder, allowed himself to be drawn back toward the cover of the trees. Somewhere beyond the blackness that shrouded his sight, Sanosuke sniffled piteously.

Sagara swallowed hard. "Are you all right?"

"He's fine." Ichiro assured. Don't talk. Just worry about staying on your feet."

And so he had. He was reeled, but unconsciousness would not come to claim him. Not until he had seen it through, not until he had watched the betrayal through to its end.

* * *

On the sixth day, the fever broke and Sagara opened his eyes.

It was late morning, and bright sun spilled through gaps in the walls. He was cocooned in blankets, but the bitter chill against his uncovered face and throat told him that snow lingered on the ground.

Every joint was stiff and aching, and Sagara took each breath slowly, carefully, as though wary of reawakening dormant agony. He wasn't in the mood for pain right now. With a tired sigh, Sagara let his eyes slip shut once again. Almost instantly, a warm wave of sleep swept over him, dragging him down towards welcoming darkness. Somewhere deep enough that none of it would matter…

"Hi there!"

Sagara jerked awake. Blinking away his initial disorientation, he found himself looking up into a bright, curious gaze. He sighed. It was only a child; a girl, a few years younger than Sanosuke. She had crept in while he dozed, and now she knelt above him, looking him over critically.

"I said hi," the girl reminded him. "My name's Misao. Who're you?"

Sagara groaned softly as a dull ache started behind his temples.

"Hi," he said, testing a faint, fragile smile.

Misao shifted a little on her knees. "Hey, are you sick? You've been asleep for a whole week, you know. You look really pale."

"I'm fine," Sagara assured. "Where am I?"

"At the Aoi-ya, of course!" Misao told him. "Lord Aoshi brought you here. Did you fight him? I bet he kicked your butt."

"Aoshi, hmm?" Sagara's smile deepened a little. So, that was his name. "No, I didn't fight him."

"Oh. Well, if you did fight him, he'd beat you bad. Who are you anyway?"

"My name's…" But Sagara hesitated, and slowly some of the light faded from his eyes. "Nobody. That's my name."

"That's not a name!" Misao gave an exasperated sigh, but her protests were cut short by the rattle of a screen being pulled back.

No sound of footsteps preceded Aoshi as he came into the room. He hesitated a moment, taking them both in at a glance.

Misao bounded to her feet to meet him.

"He's awake," she announced, wrapping her arms firmly around Aoshi's knee.

Aoshi looked over, and when their eyes met, Sagara made no attempt to hide his expression.

"Thank you," the boy said evenly, laying a hand on Misao's hair. "I'd like to talk to him alone now."

Misao stuck out her tongue. "But I wanna see!"

Aoshi glanced at her sternly, and she recoiled. "Fine," she said, slipping out through the open screen. "But you gotta tell me all about it later."

"Perhaps," Aoshi said.

He pulled the screen firmly behind her before crossing the room to Sagara's side. He knelt, looking up to Sagara's face only after a moment, as if noticing him for the first time. "How do you feel?"

With Misao gone, Sagara let his smile fade. He hut too much, in too many ways, for it to be convincing. The corner of his lips twitched, a glimpse of amusement through agony. "How am I supposed to feel?"

He laughed, a grating humorless sound, as if it came from a throat filled with dust. "I'm sorry. I'm all right."

Aoshi nodded as if that satisfied him. "I see. Your shoulder was the worst of it. How does it feel now?"

"Healing." Sagara narrowed his eyes slightly. "I'll live."

"I know you will." Aoshi hesitated as though uncertain of what more he could say. "And you'll be safe here, until your strength returns."

His words seemed somehow forced, drawing air between them taunt suddenly, and reminding Sagara that there really was nothing more for them to discuss. Aoshi had saved him for a reason, and he was now in the boy's debt. The rest could remain unspoken. But he was gripped with an inexplicable sense of urgency at the thought that he might be left alone again, and the feel of that blue gaze slipping away was as tangible as fingers across his skin.

Before he could think better of it, Sagara stretched out a hand to halt the boy's retreat.

"Thank you." He hesitated. "Aoshi."

He turned back sharply, a bit of color rushing to his cheeks. "How did you…?"

"Misao said it. Don't worry, though. Whatever you're hiding from…"

"I'm not hiding," Aoshi retorted instantly. His eyes flashed brightly. "I have nothing to fear."

"Then I must be in very capable hands."

Aoshi straightened, his shoulders bunching briefly with tension. But all at once, all the defiance seemed to rush out of him, and before Sagara's eyes, he shrank.

"Don't you think it's about time that you tell me what happened to you?" he said at last.

Sagara turned away. The one thing Aoshi needed to know was the only thing he had been trying to forget.

"I…" he tried. "I don't…"

Color flooded back to his face, and his voice rose to an urgent pitch. "I don't remember. I don't know what happened."

But he did. All those horrible memories, they were within him still.

"Why?" he gasped, unable to keep his tone from rising sharply. "Why do you have to know?"

He was not looking at Aoshi's face, but rather down at his hands, and he saw his fingers twitch against his thighs in agitation.

"My name," the bou said at last, "is Shinomori Aoshi, of the Oniwaban Ninja Clan. The movements of the government are always my concern."

"Shinomori…" Sagara echoed quietly, just to have the shape of the name in his mouth. "It's nice to finally meet you."

He felt as if Aoshi had forfeited something in just those few words, as if something had shifted in his favor. But Aoshi was still watching him, his gaze unwavering, and Sagara knew the boy wouldn't let him off that easily.

He sighed. If he just told him everything; if he said it all at once and quickly, maybe it wouldn't have time to get its claws into him.

"We were used," Sagara began softly. "They lied to us. We told people what they wanted to hear, and, I suppose, I always knew the government couldn't back up those promises. But I didn't think they'd be so desperate for someone to blame."

His eyes darkened a little, and his gaze slipped away to some point far in the distance. "They killed everyone?"

"We didn't find any other survivors," Aoshi said. "I'm sorry for the loss of your men, but you're learning now what we knew all along. This new government isn't any better than the one it replaced."

Sagara shivered. It really was finished now; there was no more to be said. He knew he should have been angry, but he wasn't. He couldn't help but be grateful for that numbness, but it was a gratitude that was close company to shame.

"I see," he murmured. He shouldn't have been asking this, was certain he knew better, but he couldn't keep it to himself. "There was a boy. At least tell me if you found his body."

Aoshi shook his head. "There was nothing about a boy in the report my men delivered," he said. "Only tracks, near the riverbed where I found you. They lost his trail - he might have walked downstream."

After a moment he added, "If my men couldn't find him, no one can."

Sagara watched him carefully for a moment, hardly daring even to breathe as he gauged the Aoshi's sincerity.

"Thank god," he sighed at last. Sanosuke was all right; he had to be. Aoshi wouldn't lie to him about something like that. He had nothing to gain from it.

Aoshi looked him over critically. "You shouldn't have allowed yourself to become so attached to a soldier, boy or not."

Sagara only tilted his chin back defiantly, and eventually Aoshi let the matter drop.

"Is there anything you need?" he said.

Sagara shook his head. "No thank you, I'm fine now. But they might come looking for me here, you know. What would you do then?"

"Kill them," Aoshi replied instantly. "This place is well protected, you know. I'd never let anyone near it."

"Of course." Sagara smiled appreciatively at the boyish pride in Aoshi's voice. Maybe it meant he was human after all. "In that case, I feel quite safe."

"Good." Aoshi pushed to his feet, brushing nonexistent dust from the front of his _gi_. "You can stay as long as you need."

He paused, meeting Sagara's gaze.

"You owe me," he added hesitantly, as though trying the words out, unsure of what Sagara would say.

"I do," Sagara replied. "I suppose it all depends on what kind of favor you decide to call in."

That had sounded like an innuendo, one so brazen that even Aoshi had picked up on it. Surprise flashed across his face, but not disgust. He retreated quickly, and didn't speak again until one hand was already poised to pull the screen shut behind him.

"We shall see," he said at last, and slipped into the hall.


	7. Chapter 6

**For War is Kind ~ Chapter 6**

The only thing he missed was the passage of time. Shut up in this interior room, seeing the sky only second-hand; sleeping when he grew lightheaded, barely half conscious the rest of the time… It was no way to live, not even for a month, a week. But Sagara could not say how long he had been confined here.

He wasn't sure of his place anymore; he had no way to find his balance, no landmark by which to right himself into equilibrium. If only he could see the sun he felt certain it would put everything in context again.

Even as he assured himself of that, he knew it wasn't true. The truth was too vast for him, to hard too look at save in small indirect glimpses. He knew only that there was a hole in his heart. It was not a great chasm, but rather a small hollow place where it felt as though sinew and bone had peeled back slightly. Aching faintly, hungrily, whenever he breathed.

They left him alone most of the time, his only constant company was distant pain and nearby memories. It was the woman, Omasu, he saw the most, with her hair neatly arranged by day, loose and careless in the evenings. He had not recognized her until he saw her once more with her hair down. Misao came by sometimes too, slipping around the edge of the screen with all the clumsy stealth she could manage. She perched at his bedside and told him a thousand trivial things, and he was so grateful for her presence that he would never admit that none of them were what he really wanted to hear.

A long time passed before he saw Aoshi again. So long that he had nearly forgotten what it felt like to not miss him.

Then, one morning, the screen slid back with a different sound then Sagara was used to, and a different silhouette stood framed by the hallway lamp.

"Good morning," Sagara greeted him. He had been hesitant to speak. He hadn't known how his voice would sound; it seemed as though all the breathable air had been sucked out of the room.

"It's evening," Aoshi informed him shortly, dragging the panel closed once more behind him.

Sagara looked away. "So it is."

For a moment, there were sharp eyes on him, searching his profile as though expecting to find something profound and significant hidden there. Then Aoshi came inside, and he knelt at Sagara's bedside.

"They think you're dead, you know," he said, after a moment's silence.

Sagara closed his eyes. Maybe that was closer to the truth then Aoshi knew. It had been a long time since he had felt alive, long enough that he worried nothing would ever get his blood moving again.

"What about it?" he said quietly.

Aoshi seemed unsurprised by his response. "It's not unfortunate, you know. For a man in your position to be dead for a while."

Sagara could have laughed, would have laughed if he thought Aoshi might let him get away from it. He turned his attention to the ceiling, to the 204 watermarks and 167 knotholes in the wood. He knew exactly how many there were because he had counted them nine times in the last seven days.

"Perfect," he said at last.

Aoshi's eyes were cold, though not exactly confrontational. It was as if he wanted nothing but to close everything else out. "I'm sorry," he said at last, "for the loss of your men. But remember that you yet live, Sagara Souzou."

That wasn't good enough. Sagara sighed and closed his eyes, his hands curling at his sides. He swallowed hard.

"Thank you," he said at last, in a voice that barely even trembled. "I haven't gotten a chance to tell you yet, but I'm very grateful for all you've done."

"You shouldn't thank me. I didn't do it for your gratitude."

"All the same…" Sagara trailed off as their eyes met. "I'm sorry. Give me your hand a moment."

The boy moved slowly, almost without motion at all, like in a dream. Using his arm for support, Sagara pushed himself upright. His ribs ached in protest, but he brushed the sensation aside like snowflakes or ashes from the shoulder of a coat.

Aoshi watched him curiously. "Take care," he said.

"I'm all right," Sagara assured. "It's just as I suspected. You look a little different when I don't have to stare up at you."

"Pardon me?"

All at once, it seemed that a bridge which had spanned the space between them crumbed away. Sagara sighed. "Forget it. I have to wonder about something all day."

"I suppose," Aoshi said, but Sagara knew by his tone that the boy did not approve of what occupied his thoughts.

"You don't like it much, do you?"

Aoshi shrank from him, as if he had been touched. "That's not it. I just don't see what I have to do with all of this."

"Nothing. Or everything. I can't even begin to set it all straight yet."

He regretted almost immediately that he had spoken in such a way to a complete stranger. It wasn't like him, and he didn't expect Aoshi to understand. He certainly wasn't holding out for sympathy. He waited, shoulders bowed, as though for judgment.

But condemnation never came, or if it did it was only in the form of a hesitant touch. Aoshi laid his hand on the bend of Sagara's elbow. "Did you believe them?" Aoshi asked quietly, sounding all at once very serious. "All the lies they made you spread?"

Sagara twisted his arm slightly, as if seeking further contact. But it never came. Aoshi had already pulled away, out of reach, and all that remained was his question.

He should have known better than to ask something like that. Sagara should have known better than to answer, but all he'd wanted these past few days was someone to talk to. He couldn't afford to be picky now.

"I wanted to believe them," he said. "I suppose that makes me the biggest fool of all."

"No." Aoshi shook his head. "No, you're just like everyone else. Making a world for yourself where you can believe that the way things turned out might actually be better than any other possible outcome."

"Aoshi…" There was a brief, terrifying instant of uncertainty. The moment after the boy spoke when he had no arguments to offer, nothing to refute his words. The sensation of standing at the apex of a high mountain, and just letting himself fall. He had never fallen before, had always pulled away at the last moment.

Sagara shook his head. If he let himself fall, he knew he would only end up getting hurt. "I can't accept that."

"You of all people should be able to, now."

"But do you really believe it yourself?" Sagara heard the pitch of his voice beginning to rise. He took a breath to dispel his mounting panic. "Do you really believe things can never be any better than they are right now? That can't be right."

"Come now," Aoshi said. His hand stretched out once more, as though he were calming a nervous animal, and Sagara flinched away. "How can you say that after what you've been through? I thought you would have learned the futility of change."

"Things are going to get better." Sagara closed his eyes, bowing his head slightly as though to assure himself that those words were true. "They're going to get better. It doesn't matter what you say. As long as people have faith, you'll always be wrong."

"You sound like a child."

"Stop it!" He jerked his head up, eyes flashing, so sudden a moment that Aoshi actually flinched away from him. It had been a long time, Sagara thought, since he had lost his temper. Even when bullets had blackened the air around him, and when the woods had been pervaded by the smell of spilt blood, he remembered that he had been remarkably calm. But it had been a long time since he'd had a conversation like this.

"My men are dead," he said, quietly, carefully, as though testing the words for some truth beyond the literal that they might secretly hold. "My friends. They were all I had, except for the things I fought for. And maybe they weren't real things, but they felt real. I can't just sit here and listen to you tell me it was all a waste. Not when it still hurts so much."

Aoshi was silent for a moment, and he tilted his head curiously to the side. "Very well, then. I won't say anymore."

"Aoshi, I…" Sagara sighed. His shoulder had begun to throb again, and his hand drifted slowly to rest over the bandages that crossed his left shoulder. He was not surprised to feel fresh blood there. It seemed appropriate, in a way. But, no, he wasn't dead yet. And Aoshi wasn't to blame for where he was now. "I wish you understood. I wish you'd try."

"Calm down." Careful hands unwound the bandages from his shoulder and wiped the blood off. "Why don't you explain it so I understand?"

Sagara arched his back a little, to make it easier for Aoshi to rebind his wound.

"I don't know if I know how to anymore." His breath caught in a quiet hiss as the boy cinched the bandages tight. "Ouch."

"I'm nearly done," Aoshi assured. He settled back on his knees, swiping his hands on the edge of the futon to clean his stained palms. "It's not bad. You'll be all right."

"Thank you." All the strength seemed to rush out of him abruptly, and Sagara sank back to the mattress. There was a knot in his throat, and his body ached. He knew that they had argued, but suddenly he could not remember the cause. Any anger, any resentment seemed so far distant from where he was right now that Sagara couldn't even conceive it any more.

He knew before he tried to speak how dull and unconvincing his voice would sound, how completely exhausted. "Aoshi, I just…"

"Save it." The boy shook his head. "For later."

Sagara watched him a long moment, as though gauging his sincerity. "All right," he said at last. He wasn't giving up yet. His faith was battered – he was just beginning to realize how bruised it had become – but he was not broken. "But it still matters."

"Yes, I know." Aoshi climbed to his feet. "But for now, rest. You need it.

He said nothing, didn't even look up as Aoshi turned to go. He watched him into the hallway out of the corner of his eye; not daring to turn his head until the rattle of a screen dragged shut announced his passing.


	8. Chapter 7

**For War is Kind ~ Chapter 7**

There came, at last, a morning when Sagara awoke and knew that something had changed during the night. I felt better; by no means completely healed, but stronger and more clearheaded than he had in weeks. He savored each breath he took, for it was not until this particular moment that Sagara had really believed he was alive.

Slowly, testing each limb for dormant pain, Sagara pushed himself upright and passed a hand over his gray eyes. He hadn't realized until now how hot and uncomfortable the blankets were from being lain in for so long, not how lank and dirty the locks of hair that adhered to his neck and jaw were.

He didn't want to stay here anymore.

It was a great effort, but Sagara pushed to his feet, tugging a blanket with him to wrap around his naked hips. And it felt a little strange, stranger still when he realized the last time he had stood unassisted it had been to stare down the barrel of a gun.

The memory of that night threatened to take him, but Sagara did not allow it. Steeling himself, he dressed in the clothes Omasu had left for him a few days back: a dark blue yukata and white obi. Peasant clothes, he thought, taking comfort in that. His stiff fingers rebelled when he tried to make them tie the sash around his waist, but at last he managed a simple, slightly crooked knot at the small of his back.

A few aches still lingered, but they seemed the kind would depart if he could only move about for a while. It was early, and he was alone for now as he slipped out of the room on bare feet. Ever since he was a child, times like this had always filled him with shame, as if there was some sin in being awake while everyone else slept and he was breaking some unwritten contract.

Most of the panels in the hall were shut tight, but one stood partly open, spilling a wedge of golden light against the far wall. He could hear soft sounds from outside, and Sagara stepped out into the inn's central courtyard. The bright light of dawn made him restless, as though something were waiting for him, just waiting for the right catalyst.

Until he realized who had lured him outside; then, he felt only timidity.

Aoshi seemed not to notice him immediately, but to Sagara that seemed unlikely. As he watched, the boy drew his short sword, bracing the blade against his palm. Aoshi drew a deep breath, sliding forward languidly into the first steps of a form. The motions were obviously familiar ones, ingrained into him like the hollows water leave on a stone. He moved through them with his eyes half-hooded, every movement deliberate and graceful and almost ethereal

Sagara felt a pang of guilt. I was as though he had intruded on something very intimate. He should have withdrawn without a word, but if Aoshi already knew he was here…

Sagara only crossed his arms over his chest and fell back a step, content to watch the boy practice. Every move was perfect, and Sagara wondered at the strength in those long limbs.

Eventually, Aoshi's movements slowed to a halt, and he turned.

Sagara hesitated a moment, seemed to shy away at first, but then he came forward, his steps noiseless on the courtyard grass. "I feel foolish for having been worried before," he said, so softly that it did not seem like teasing. "I can see that I'm in very capable hands."

He lowered his eyes, but he did not manage to hide the tiny smile that curled his lips. "I watched you. I hope you aren't offended."

"No." It had been a while since Aoshi had been seen practicing without being subject to criticism or instruction. Sagara's gaze was soft and thoughtful, and different from what he was used to. A lot about this man was unfamiliar.

"It's good to see you on your feet," he offered.

"I feel better." Sagara's expression seemed to warm a little. "Much better. Thanks to you. I suppose this means you'll want me out of your way soon, doesn't it?"

"Not necessarily," Aoshi replied. "I don't mind, that is to say. This place is something like a safe house for people like us."

"I have a hard time imagining that you need anyone to keep you safe." But his words were met with only a sharp look. "I apologize. At any rate, I'm starved. Will you let me prepare breakfast for you?"

Aoshi passed a hand over the front of his _gi_, straightening it. He seemed to spend an uncommon length of time at the task, before at last turning his eyes back up to Sagara's. "Very well."

They paused only long enough for Aoshi to conceal his sword in his room. Sagara was relieved by the disappearance of the weapon, but he tried not to let it show.

Soon, they were seated alone in the inn's common room, a simple meal of rice and _miso_ spread out on the low table before them. Some of the color had returned to Sagara's face, and Aoshi felt inexplicably proud to see it, as though his hand alone had nursed the man back to health. When their eyes met, Aoshi hesitated. He was captivated, simply because Sagara was alive. Every subtle movement and every breath he drew seemed at once prophetic and profound and tragic.

This man affected him strangely. Since the first moment words had passed between them in a darkened hallway, all those months ago, it felt as though Sagara had been with him, watching him the whole time with those strange gray eyes.

Sagara at last glanced away. He laughed again, nervous this time, though. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable. I've been away from people so long, I guess I've forgotten how to be gracious company."

"It's fine." Aoshi shook his head slowly, and wondered if he shouldn't apologize for his own strange behavior. In the end, he didn't. He had no excuses, after all. But he watched Sagara closely a moment longer, still fascinated by the delicate shift of bones in his hand as he lifted a bite of rice to his lips.

"It's good," Sagara said. "Thank you."

"You cooked it," Aoshi reminded him. "You must be in a good mood, though. You have compliments for everything. I would have thought…" But when he realized what he had been about to say, he trailed off, burying the words in another bite. "Never mind."

Sagara said nothing, but his smile flickered, eclipsed from his eyes. "I…" He stopped abruptly, and took another bite, chewing slowly

When it seemed he would not continued Aoshi opened his mouth a little, as if to speak. But to apologize seemed foolish, and he didn't know what else to do. He couldn't seem to find the words he should have said, words of comfort or condemnation.

"I haven't forgotten them," Sagara said suddenly, without looking up, and for a moment the words hung in the air between them like sounds waiting to be assigned meaning. "I really haven't. But there's nothing I can do, so I'm trying-"

"I wasn't questioning you," Aoshi assured. He understood what it was like to lose men, and he understood treachery. He was in no position to call Sagara weak. "You have my condolences, for your loss."

Sagara glanced up, and something faint and sad passed over his features. "Thank you. That comforts me."

Aoshi's jaw tightened subtly. He didn't want Sagara looking at him that way, yet it startled him when he traced the conversation back and realized it was his fault. But still he was speaking, saying all the things he knew he shouldn't. "There won't be any justice for them, you know. Or for you."

Sagara's breath caught, and he choked like a dying man.

"I wasn't expecting any," Sagara said softly. "It's so strange. When I try to imagine holding a sword again, even if it's to avenge them, I can't do it. It's not my face, my voice. I think maybe something has come loose inside, like when you drop a music box and you can hear all the parts rattling around inside…"

He closed his eyes. "You must think there's something wrong with me."

"Perhaps." Aoshi bit his lip; he hadn't meant to sound so harsh. "You've been deceived. Some men can see only in absolutes, and it's hard for them when they realize that reality is very gray. You're not worse than anyone else."

He could tell that his words hadn't been comforting. That was fine; Sagara had no right to expect comfort from him. But all the same, he was pushing to his feet, circling around to kneel at Sagara's side.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

"Yes." He said it too quickly, as if desperate to have it out. When he at last turned his eyes up to look at Aoshi, it seemed after a great effort.

"I'm fine," he repeated. "Just… I'm afraid I've misjudged my strength. I think I'll lie down for a while, if it's all the same to you."

"Sagara. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"I said I was all right. Just… excuse me. Please."

He rose, brushing past Aoshi on his way to the door.

For a moment Aoshi only stared after him, trying to conquer the small flutter of emotion beneath his ribs. He felt like he was letting something infinitely important escape him, slip around and away from him like a stranger's hand drawn over his skin in a crowd.

He rose to follow. Perhaps this wasn't his fault, but he was responsible, and so he was obligated to make certain Sagara at least made it to his room safely.

Sagara slipped into his room, tugging the screen halfway closed behind him. Abruptly he collapsed to his knees beside the futon that hadn't yet been put away. His heart was pounding, each breath catching frantically, like a sob.

Aoshi watched for a moment, but Sagara didn't seem about to calm himself. When he knelt beside him, Sagara began to shiver.

"I'm sorry," Aoshi said He struggled with the words, like a phrase in an unfamiliar language. They must have sounded hollow coming from his lips.

Sagara shook his head. "It's all gone now. Everything. I don't even know where to begin looking to get it all back, because it's like it's the same place a fist goes when you open your hand."

He pressed his eyes shut. "Don't say you're sorry."

For a moment, Aoshi was silent, and Sagara waited like a man waits for death. But Aoshi knew he was only waiting for the shuffle of cloth that meant Aoshi was rising to his feet and leaving.

Only Aoshi didn't leave. He pressed a hand to Sagara's shoulder.

"Come on." Aoshi cleared his throat, and began to prod him back down toward the mattress. "Just rest a while. You're in no condition for this right now."

Sagara shook his head. By now, his eyes were nearly dry. "I'm all right. I will be."

"I know." Aoshi seemed satisfied by that, and he withdrew his hand. "You're strong, after all. I just don't know what to tell you. I'm no good at this. What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," Sagara said instantly. "Nothing you can give. I'll pull through."

Aoshi watched him a moment longer, holding Sagara's eyes, searching for something that would betray the mysterious meaning behind those words.

"Shall I leave you, then?" he said at last.

"You don't have to…" Sagara said. "But you must have matters to attend to."

"Not really. I'm supposed to be laying low too, after all." He leaned back on his hands. "There isn't much for me to do, so I don't mind staying. If that's all right with you, of course."

"Oh." Sagara was taken aback. "I just think it's worse to be alone. Maybe it's not the way I'm supposed to do this, but…"

"You don't have to explain. I know."

"It still doesn't seem real, you know," he said quietly, lowering his eyes. "They were all I had for so long. No family, no home, no one to love. The revolution came and swept all that away. No man should hesitate to give his life for the revolution, but that was the one thing she didn't want from me. I don't know how to go back."

"There is no way back," Aoshi replied. "Once things change, you can't pretend they never happened. You have to adapt." He frowned, as though afraid of having again spoken too harshly. "What I mean is, it's all right to grieve for what you can't get back, but you can't forget to look ahead. That's where the future is. Or so my master once said."

"It's kind of funny," Sagara said. "Just because it's so disgraceful. I don't want revenge at all. Maybe I lost sight of my ideals a long time ago. Maybe, in the end, I was just fighting blindly, like a man fights to protect his wife and children. I know I can't ever go back, but I can't stay here either. There need to be people who don't fight just as much as there need to be people who do, don't you think?"

Aoshi nodded. "Yes, I think so. Otherwise, I wouldn't have anyone to protect."

"So you think I need to be protected, Aoshi?"

"Yes, I do. For now. Part of being a leader is knowing when to deliver yourself into the hands of another."

"You sound as though you speak from experience," Sagara said. "I suppose I have no choice but to believe you, then. Besides, I feel safe here."

"These are changing times. We all have to adapt quickly."

Sagara nodded. "I suppose you already know what I need from you. All that's left is to find out what you need from me."

"I don't need anything," Aoshi said instantly, but he wasn't sure that would be enough to convince Sagara. He was a man who could root out every lie, save the one that had damned him in the end.

"Oh. That's all right too, then." Sagara looked away. "But if you think of anything. Anything I can do… Maybe I'm broken, but you can still use me for scrap, right?"

"I'm just not used to asking for favors," Aoshi said. "If you stay long enough, though, I'm sure to think of something."

"Stay?"

"Yes. Stay here." Aoshi hesitated. The next words seemed to come only after several false internal starts. "That is, you can stay as long as you need. You don't have to, if there's somewhere else you'd rather be."

"This place is as good as any," Sagara said. "And better than most. When you think of what you want, you'll tell me, right?"

"Of course." Aoshi's hand slipped across the floorboards. Their fingers touched.

Sagara breathed a sigh, and laid his hand over the boy's, strengthening their contact. "Aoshi. You've been so kind to me."

Aoshi leaning back a little, but their hands were still joined, whether he realized it now or not. "I really haven't done that much," he said.

At his back, Sagara felt the clawing of a thousand blood-soaked memories, skeletal fingers closing around his ankles and wrists to draw him back into despair. And before him, only this boy, with his proud voice and unsmiling lips, his frozen eyes now simmering with uncertainty and cautiousness. "You've done more than you will ever know."

As he leaned forward, Sagara felt the weight of the past, his sins and failures, slide abruptly away like a heavy robe from his shoulders. It was still there, and likely it always would be, inside him now like poison in his blood. But at this moment, in the space of this single heartbeat, it was somehow less. And he was grateful, grateful to the point of tears.

Aoshi's lips parted, and they were so close that Sagara could taste the warmth of his breath.

"Have you decided?" There was something like fragile humor in Sagara's voice. "What you need yet?"

"I…" Aoshi stumbled ungracefully, unlike himself, over a reply. "I don't know."

"That's fine," Sagara whispered. He smiled, though the expression was still a little sad around the edges. His fingertips glided, reassuring, over Aoshi's cheek. "I understand. You get lonely sometimes, and then you forget what you want."

"Sagara. I…" He grabbed the front of Sagara's clothes. To push him away, was Sagara's first thought. It had to have been to push him away. But Aoshi was clumsily pulling him closer, as if for balance.

"You know what's happening, don't you?" Sagara said.

"Yes," Aoshi breathed. His eyes drifted shut and his chin tilted back. An invitation, which Sagara did not hesitate to accept. Their lips met; Aoshi let it happen. He was passive, neither accepting nor resisting. But when Sagara pulled away, a moan of protest rose in his throat. He managed to silence it in time.

"What are you…?" Aoshi gasped.

"Kissing you." Sagara tossed his head to shake the hair from his eyes. He was already leaning in again, and Aoshi shivered as the gap between them slipped away. "Didn't you like it?"

Again, their lips met, slow and coaxing, and Aoshi felt himself drawn forward. He gasped softly, but it was lost somewhere between their lips, in the desperate, humid ebb of shared breath. But the sound of his own voice, even with all the life crushed out of it by their kiss, seemed to wake him a little, and Aoshi pulled away.

He stumbled to his feet, one hand clutching at his collar. At some point along the way, his vision had become narrow, fringed around the edges with black, and for an instant all he could see were gray eyes. All he could feel was the memory of warm lips, the dying tattoo of heat against his mouth.

Sagara leaned back, passing the back of one hand over his mouth. He stretched the other out towards him. "Aoshi, wait. Don't go."

Aoshi edged away a few steps, eyes darting to the offered hand as if it were a knife. "Don't come near me. What's wrong with you?"

Sagara winced. The pain couldn't have been more real if Aoshi had struck him across the face.

"It's not normal. How can you…?" Aoshi backed away another step, and his shoulder blades struck the panel. With a sharp gasp, he clawed it open, but in the doorway he hesitated a moment. "I'm sorry," he whispered, pressing his palm to his mouth. "I shouldn't have."

And with a violent shake of his head, he turned quickly, to leave Sagara's warm, wounded eyes far behind him.

"Wait!" Sagara cursed softly, and started after him. The boy was well into the hallway by the time Sagara caught him by the shoulder. "Aoshi, please, I didn't mean to frighten you. But…" He sighed, slow and shuddering, and let his hand fall. "You don't have to run away."

Aoshi jerked away, then regretted it. "I'm not running," he snapped, and then regretted that, too. "Sagara, you...I..."

He closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts. "Why?"

Sagara reached out again, but he pulled back before they could touch. "Because I thought it was the right thing to do. And maybe it wasn't, but it wasn't wrong either, was it? Can you tell me it was wrong for you?"

"That's not why I saved you," Aoshi snapped. But then he shook his head. "No, I didn't mean that. I just… I still don't understand why."

"I suppose, because I like you. Is that a good enough reason?" Sagara smiled, but it was a weak gesture that did nothing to ease the tension between them.

"I don't know," Aoshi admitted softly, against his better judgment. His chest ached.

"Oh. I see."

"I'm sorry," Sagara said. "If I misunderstood you."

That wasn't the word Aoshi would have chosen, if only because he wasn't yet sure what he thought of the moment they had shared. Something had made him pull away, but whether it had been the kiss, or the way his body reacted so strangely and frighteningly to it, he didn't yet know.

"I'm not angry." It was the most he could offer right now, but Sagara lifted his head at the words.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." He passed one hand over the front of his clothing, as if brushing away dust. "But I can't…"

"I know," Sagara assured. "It's all right." He stepped back, as though to declare the conversation over. Aoshi couldn't help but be grateful for that. When Sagara looked at him that way, it felt as though the man could see right through him. And he seemed to know just how unstable he felt right now. "If you change your mind…"

But Aoshi looked away, and Sagara let the words die in the air between them. He knew better than to try to force the situation. The rest, he thought as he turned to depart, would be for Aoshi to figure out on his own.


	9. Chapter 8

**For War is Kind ~ Chapter 8**

Night had come, and he was here again, standing in the hall just outside this familiar room. And though he knew better, Aoshi swore he could feel Sagara's eyes on him, even through the drawn panel. Pulling at him, urging him on.

He had spent all day avoiding the inn's other residents as best he could; he could still feel Sagara's lips on his, as though they had left behind a mark which was as indelible as a scar. Surely anyone who looked closely enough would be able to see it. Would know that something had changed about him.

It was hard to believe that something like that could have affected him at all. He had never thought of himself as a chaste man, and he hadn't had any particular desire to remain untouched forever. But Sagara's kisses tormented him. If he left them alone for too long, they would change him. He wouldn't even recognize his own face anymore. That was why he was here: he just had to be sure.

Aoshi cleared his throat quietly, and then he called out, "Sagara? Are you in? It's Shinomori Aoshi."

A swishing of movement came from within. When Sagara spoke, there was a quivering around the edges of his voice. "Yes. Come in."

Aoshi slipped inside, making sure the panel was drawn tightly behind him before he looked up to meet the man's eyes. It was strange to see Sagara standing there, his yukata rumpled at the collar where he had hastily clenched it closed. His smile no different than other smile, and yet his eyes betraying so much. Aoshi stepped forward. There was something he'd wanted to say all day.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Oh." Sagara drew back, as if startled. "That's good, I suppose."

"I just don't like being surprised," Aoshi continued, though by now he was wondering if there was really a need. Sagara seemed to understand him, know every move before he made it. "I'm not used to being touched like that."

"Then you have my apologies."

Aoshi had expected something like that, but had not expected it to sound sincere. "I didn't ask you to apologize."

Sagara looked away, but not quickly enough that Aoshi didn't catch the tiny smile that flickered across his lips. He retreated a few steps, as if beckoning Aoshi on. "In that case, I'm sorry for apologizing. I just can't win with you, can I?"

Aoshi watched him go, and then, in the end, he followed. "Don't worry about it."

"I have to worry," he said, turning then and coming forward a step. "Because, Aoshi, you are..."

"I'm what?" Aoshi couldn't stop himself. He was still moving forward, until he stood just before Sagara. "I still don't understand what you want..."

Sagara laughed, and Aoshi felt his stomach turn over at the sound of it.

"You are..." Sagara tried again. "You are so close to me I can hardly breathe."

He reached up, brushing a lock of hair from Aoshi's temple.

Usually Aoshi would have scoffed at such a declaration. Until Sagara's fingertips feathered over his skin, giving him a taste of that experience.

"No," Aoshi said. "Hold still a moment." Fixing Sagara with a steady stare, as if that alone would be enough to pin him in place, Aoshi took another step forward, reaching out to rest one hand against Sagara's chest.

"I'm glad to see we're friends again," Sagara said.

"Friends?" Aoshi echoed, lifting the other hand to Sagara's chest as well, gliding his palms over the sloping indentation of ribs, slipping his fingertips beneath the folds of Sagara's _yukata_. His skin felt hot to the touch, and Aoshi bit his lip. "Is that what we are now? Were we ever?"

He shook his head. "Will you just let me touch you, for a while?"

Sagara watched the movement of his hands. "I think I can live with that arrangement." But he reached up, brushing his fingertips over the back of Aoshi's wrist to catch his attention. "There's no reason to be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you, you know."

"Hurt me?" Aoshi snorted softly, his fingers curling, almost into fists, against Sagara's chest. "I don't even think you could."

"But you're still nervous..."

"I'm not..." But Aoshi knew he wouldn't be able to convince Sagara of as much. He could tell how clearly his thoughts must be painted on his face right now; he felt so fragile, as he lowered his eyes, leaning in a little more until his forearms lay flat against Sagara's chest. "I'm not."

"All right, then." Sagara wrapped an arm around the small of Aoshi's back. Then they were kissing again, though Aoshi could not say with any certainty which of them had started it. Sagara seemed reticent, though. He was holding back.

"I'm not a child," Aoshi said abruptly. "So don't think you can just... just..." But another kiss cut his protests short, leaving him feeling distant and shaky.

When Sagara leaned back once more, he was smiling, as if savoring some great triumph. "I know what you are, Aoshi," he said. "And I know what you're not."

Sighing, Aoshi turned away. "I'm their leader. I shouldn't be so weak."

Sagara stepped closer, and pressed a hand to Aoshi's back, between his shoulder blades. "Is that what you think this is about?"

"I…" Aoshi sighed. He didn't know what this was, but he knew what it wasn't. The broken intake of his breath, the slight shiver that went through him at even that casual touch; all of it, drawing him in, making him doubt even his ability to not need this man so much it hurt. And he turned back, catching Sagara by the wrist as he tried to recoil. Pulling him forward a step so they met in a hard kiss.

A shiver passed through Sagara's body; the hands that took Aoshi by the hips were trembling. It was strange, to think that maybe he really did have some kind of power over this man. They had moved before he even had an opportunity to think that he shouldn't be letting this happen, shouldn't have let Sagara's arms wrap around his waist, shouldn't have let him pull them both down to the _tatami_. Aoshi braced his forearm against the floor before he could be forced onto his back, but there were still lips on his, hair in this eyes that was not just his own, and the urgent heat that he could feel even through two layers of clothing.

And then, Sagara stopped. He leaned back, tilting his head to the side and searching Aoshi's expression.

"Sorry," he said at last.

"I'm just not used to this." Aoshi's hands curled into fists. "And if you keep apologizing for everything, I'm going to leave."

Sagara laughed wearily, and it felt like a light breeze against Aoshi's cheek and the curve of his ear. "That's too bad," he said. "That you're not used to this, that is." He might have been a little disappointed, or maybe even a little surprised.

Aoshi reached up to slide the fingertips of one hand over Sagara's hip, down to the outside of his thigh. He swallowed hard against the knot in the back of his throat. "Is that acceptable to you?"

"I think it's fine." Sagara feathered a quick, chaste kiss over his temple, and then he pulled away, stretching out on the mats at Aoshi's side with an arm crooked behind his head.

"Stop patronizing me."

Sagara glanced toward him. "I'm not."

"You are, though," Aoshi said. "You do it without even knowing."

Sagara turned onto his side and looking up into Aoshi's eyes. "What do you want from me?"

"Back to what I want?" Aoshi muttered, lowering his hand to slide over the seam between two of the mats.

"Doesn't it matter to you?" Gently, Sagara touched his wrist, stilling his hand. "Are you going to spend the rest of your life living the way other people want you to?"

Aoshi lifted his head; for a moment there was something different - more vibrant - in Sagara's gaze. And he turned away from it. "Don't lecture me; you don't understand anything. We're dying, Sagara."

He heard Sagara move, but he was slow to react to it. He submitted to the arms that wrapped around his body, embracing him.

"Don't say that," Sagara whispered They were close now, and he could feel the vibration of Sagara's voice behind his ribs. "No one is going to die anymore."

Aoshi's breath caught. "I didn't mean that. I was talking about my men, our kind. There's not much left for us anymore. They keep telling me that I shouldn't stay here for their sake." He lifted a hand to his chest to rest over Sagara's. "But I have to protect them."

"Aoshi..." The way Sagara said his name made it sound like a sigh. "I understand. I was like that too…"

"I know. Which is why I'm telling you." He leaned back, so he could fee Sagara's breath on his throat. He felt as if he was trembling - one of them was, at least - and he should have been ashamed. "I didn't ever know I was young, until they told me so."

"But you are," Sagara said. "Is it so bad?"

"No, it isn't," Aoshi said softly. "Because it shouldn't matter. I'm stronger than them. That's why I lead them..."

But none of that really mattered. Aoshi knew the truth; he was young, separate from them. And he hated that more than anything.

Sagara reached down, taking one of Aoshi's hands in his own, trailing his thumb slowly over the backs of his knuckles. "You are strong, but don't you think there are times when it's better to be weak?"

For the first time, Aoshi considered pulling away. He could throw off Sagara's arms; he could walk away, just like the last time, and it wouldn't be that he was running, that he was afraid. But he didn't move. "I don't ever want to be weak."

"That's not quite what I meant.

" Sagara was quiet for a long moment, his fingers shifted against Aoshi's skin, as though searching for something he almost remembered. At last, he leaned closer, pressing his lips to the side of Aoshi's throat. "Let's not talk anymore."

Aoshi swallowed hard; he hadn't been expecting that. Sagara's touch seemed to infuse him with something simultaneously hot and chilling, but this time he didn't try to pull away. He was stronger than that, after all. Or was this a different matter?

"Do you... want me to be weak?" he asked cautiously, stretching his back so that his shoulder blades rubbed faintly against Sagara's chest.

Sagara's breath caught. "Only if you need to be."

"So now it's a matter of what I need?" Aoshi said quietly. "At least that's a little better than what I want."

He took Sagara's wrists, making him hold him tighter. Sagara's fingers were long and delicate - hands new to a sword. He liked being touched by hands like that, without judgment, and Aoshi tilted his head back, exposing his throat for another kiss. He was just curious.

This time he was not shocked by the feel of lips skating along the underside of his jaw. Gentle on the first pass, and then more deliberate. "You don't know you're young," Sagara said. "But surely you know that you're beautiful, right? And something else too. Something... I don't know yet."

"I'm beautiful?" Despite all his earlier declarations, Aoshi suddenly felt inexperienced and naïve. It was such a ridiculous compliment to be giving a man, but he was flattered by it. "Sagara." His hand reached out, alighting on the man's thigh. Sagara seemed to tremble a little at the touch, and that at least made him confident. "What I need..."

He didn't say more, but somehow Sagara seemed to understand. Aoshi wasn't certain if he was grateful for that or not, but suddenly he was being pushed back again. This time he didn't resist. Sagara knelt astride his hips, and then he leaned down, tangling the fingers of one hand in Aoshi's hair to hold him still while he kissed him.

None of this was how he had imagined it. His entire body felt electrified and tense, like it did before a battle, but Aoshi didn't struggle against this. He relented instead, slipping his hands beneath the folds of Sagara's _yukata_ and pushing it off his shoulders. As Sagara freed himself from the folds, Aoshi pressed his palms to bare his chest, taking a moment to feel him.

Beneath his right hand throbbed the urgent pulse of Sagara's heart, beneath his left the rise and fall of his breathing. He curled his fingers around the man's ribs, the ghosts of what had been lithe, trained muscle. His injuries hadn't wasted him, not completely - there was still strength in him somewhere. It was only hidden, like a city sunken beneath the ocean. But Sagara was weaker than he once had been.

Aoshi hesitated when he realized it. He didn't like that; he had never liked fighting when his enemy wasn't at its strongest, and though this was far from battle, what it was doing to his body made him think that it wasn't so different.

At last, Sagara freed himself from his _yukata_, but when he turned back to Aoshi for another kiss, a frown came over his lips. "What's wrong? If you don't want to..."

Aoshi tensed. "After all this trouble, you're saying things like that now?" His eyes narrowed. "If you want me so badly, then come and take me."

"I will." Sagara kissed him again; harder this time, and as if with greater direction. His hands pawed over the front of Aoshi's civilian clothes; at first his touches seemed harmlessly clumsy and aimless, but then Aoshi's felt cool air on his bare throat. And then that cold touch drifting lower, to his chest and his navel, and Aoshi realized how precisely his _yukata_ had been peeled away.

So, Sagara was experienced. Aoshi wasn't sure if that made him nervous, or thrilled him. Perhaps a little of both, though he hadn't thought until now that was possible. Sagara was experienced, and Aoshi himself was not. It seemed like it should be a simple equation; the conclusion he was supposed to draw from it should have been an easy one, but he could give those two thoughts, in that order, no particular meaning. Every time his mind stumbled toward reason, the press of Sagara's lips, the burning caress of fingertips over newly exposed skin pulled him abruptly back.

When Sagara had opened his _yukata_ to the waist and it lay spread out around him like wings, he pulled away. Not far, but enough that Aoshi was left gasping in the absence. "Sagara..." he panted.

Sagara raked his fingernails slowly down Aoshi's chest, from collarbones to waist, raising twin chills over his flesh. Talented, experienced hands loosened his _obi_ in less time then he could have done it himself, casting it aside in a whisper of fabric. Aoshi knew he must have looked a little startled, because Sagara gave him a stern look. "Stay put."

He bent his head, moving down Aoshi's body slowly, leaving a line of intermittent kisses over his throat and chest. He paused long enough to swirl his tongue around a nipple, and then pulled away again, leaving the air to cool the flesh he had just dampened. Aoshi shivered, and Sagara told him, "Shh."

As he reached the hollow between Aoshi's hipbones, Sagara slowed, pressing his lips a few times to the skin beneath his navel. And in spite of his vow to not appear weak before Sagara, Aoshi writhed, gritting his teeth and arching his back, trying to guide Sagara down, just a little more, to ease the tightness growing between his thighs.

He wanted this man; Aoshi was almost shocked to realize it. That it was someone like Sagara, with eyes that were still innocent, with clever hands and desperate caresses who could almost make him beg, almost make him plead. Aoshi reached down, his hands trembling now, and curled his fingers in Sagara's hair, feeling his thighs part a little more in anticipation.

Sagara pressed his cheek to the inside of Aoshi's thigh, and Aoshi watched him, unable to look away, cataloguing every subtle shift behind Sagara's eyes, every parting of his lips.

Sagara slid the tip of his index finger along the underside of Aoshi's cock, tracing it from root to tip. Aoshi shuddered, a soft, breathless moan slipping from his throat. It seemed to him impossible that such a calculated touch could enflame him so. And yet he felt cold when it was withdrawn.

Their eyes met over the rise of Aoshi's body, and Sagara smiled rakishly.

It was so sudden. Until that moment, there had still been a part of him that hadn't really believed Sagara would do it. Then his hands were on him, and his mouth, greedy and hot, and Aoshi no longer knew what to believe.

He could do nothing but submit while his own body betrayed him, lashing him into a frenzy. And then, mercifully, it was finished.

Aoshi lay still for a long time, trying catch his breath and make his thoughts run in order. He had nearly succeeded when Sagara crawled back up his body, pressing a salty kiss to his lips, which swept away in an instant even the desire to reclaim his scattered pride.

"Sagara..." He gave up explaining himself before he began; it was too much effort. He felt warm here, safe, beneath Sagara's calm inquisitive gaze. "This had better not be what you meant about feeling weak," he murmured.

"Why? Do you?" Sagara whispered, so softly he couldn't be sure if it had been intended to be serious or not.

Aoshi closed his eyes again. "I'm exhausted," he admitted. "But that's not the same thing."

"No, I suppose it isn't." Sagara kissed him again, then turned his head to bury his nose in locks of dark hair, breathing a deep sigh against Aoshi's cheek. "Let's get some sleep, all right? You can stay tonight, if you like."

Aoshi swallowed hard; it was becoming difficult to ignore the subtle signals from Sagara's body. His breath was ragged, his heartbeat a little elevated. More than that, his need was palpable, almost something Aoshi could taste. He just nodded, and Sagara rolled off him. He stood, gathering his _yukata_ loosely around himself, and unrolled the futon for sleeping. Aoshi caught his elbow as he was in the act of spreading the blankets over it.

"Sagara..." He tugged the man back against him, sliding the back of his hand down his abdomen. He was still agitated, and suddenly Aoshi found himself wondering if he could make Sagara feel weak.

Sagara caught his hand, pulling it to his mouth so he could kiss his fingertips. "It's all right," he said quietly. He sank down onto the futon, tugging Aoshi after him. "Let's just try to get some sleep, all right?"

Aoshi hesitated. "Did I do something wrong? Have I offended you?"

"No." Sagara shook his head. "You didn't do anything wrong. But I just want to lie down and be quiet for a while."

"I see," Aoshi said. But he didn't really understand. Sagara's moods changed so quickly, no one could be expected to keep up with them. Aoshi knelt beside the bed while Sagara fixed the blankets around himself. He didn't speak, or even look up at him. Aoshi had an unshakable feeling that Sagara was annoyed, but he could no even begin to determine the reason.

"Do you want me with you?" he asked at last, when it became clear that Sagara had no intention of breaking the silence.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, for the last time. Yes."

Aoshi was startled. He had never heard Sagara speak in such a way. Feeling for all the world like a scolded child, Aoshi pulled back the blankets and climbed into bed.

"No one ever dared speak to me like that before," he whispered.

Sagara turned over on his side, pulling Aoshi close. He found his cheek pressed suddenly against Sagara's chest, his head tucked beneath his chin. He could not see his expression when he spoke next.

"Yes," Sagara said. "You are who you are. You've always been a warrior, and I've been many things in my life, but never that. If these were the old days, I'd never be able to say such things to you. I'd never touch you like this…"

I was hard to be angry with Sagara when they were this close, and so he wasn't mad. But Sagara's words had been dangerously close to insulting, and Aoshi could not permit that. "Don't make this about rank," he warned quietly. "I won't be a foil for your failed revolution."

"Failed…" Sagara echoed. But he didn't sound angry either, just resigned. "Be quiet now, Aoshi. I'm very tired, and I want to sleep."

Their argument cut short before it began, Aoshi wasn't sure what to do. If Sagara wasn't going to fight him, then he could think of no excuse to leave his side. With a sigh, he settled himself more comfortably in bed, leaning his head close to Sagara's so they could share the pillow.

"Good night," Aoshi said.

He didn't expect an answer.


	10. Chapter 9

**For War is Kind ~ Chapter 9**

Sagara passed another week at the Aoi-Ya. He used to think it would be hard to return to a life like this, a peaceful life, after he had spent so many years with a blade in his hand. He had been wrong; quiet domesticity still suited him just fine.

Omasu kept him busy once she saw that he was back on his feet, but he didn't mind. He wanted to stay here as long as he could, and so he didn't mind earning his keep if it would buy him some time.

He didn't have anywhere else to go. He couldn't return home. By now, the reports of the Sekihoutai's fall and the rumors of his death must have reached there, and when he tried to imagine showing up at his door, explaining himself to a family he hadn't seen in six years... he couldn't even begin to find the words.

It was just as well. He had exhausted himself missing them already, and then he had learned to live without them, just as they had almost certainly learned to live without him. Surely they no longer grieved for their strange youngest son with gray dreamy eyes, whose mind sometimes wandered with the changing seasons. Going home now would only be painful for all of them.

He had been content, once, and he could be again, even if it wasn't in the same way. The past was too treacherous for him now, but if he pressed on, there just might be a place left for him.

He could survive, with that hope to sustain him.

Perhaps Shinomori Aoshi provided more of an incentive for him to stay than he would have cared to admit. The man was an enigma, and he liked that.

Every night, when he would slide back the panel to Sagara's room, his eyes smooth and hard as volcanic glass, he looked every bit as dangerous as Sagara knew he could be.

Sagara had learned that it was best to wait before touching him, and so when Aoshi showed up at his door that night, Sagara greeted him, as usual, with an easy smile. "I missed you today," he said smoothly, as he rose to make sure the panel was firmly closed. He turned, leaning his shoulder blades against the wall and folding his arms over his chest.

"I was busy. I didn't have time for you." Aoshi glanced over his shoulder. "What are you doing back there?"

Sagara bit back a grin. "Oh, nothing. And I know you were busy. Am I not allowed to miss you now?"

"I don't see why you would."

"Mmm, me neither." He started forward a few steps. "So you're saying I'm not allowed? Not even... a little?'

Aoshi turned slowly to face him. "You're teasing me," he accused.

"Am I?" He laughed softly. "Am I not allowed to tease you anymore, either?" He trailed two fingertips over Aoshi's left hip. "You're not leaving me with many options."

Aoshi held his eyes, but his hand drifted over Sagara's pinning it against the top of his thigh. "I came because..." Sagara leaned closer, and he turned sharply away. "Because..."

"Looks like I'm not the only tease here."

Aoshi balked, pulling back again, still not far enough to break the contact between them. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's all right." Sagara smiled, moving his hand against Aoshi's hip. His voice dropped to throaty whisper. "I like it when you tease me."

Their eyes met, and Aoshi gasped, as though realizing for the first time just how close Sagara was standing. He darted forward, pressing a quick, lopsided kiss to his lips. "I like the way you touch me."

Even knowing it might have been the most inappropriate thing he could have done, Sagara laughed. He slipped his arms around Aoshi's waist, drawing him into a real kiss. "I think more can be arranged."

Even more than being teased, he liked the way Aoshi bent beneath his hands and mouth. The way he always seemed so surprised when he was giving way beneath him. Sagara drew him forward, helping him out of his dark _yukata_.

He was changing a man. With every touch, every breath, every soft moan of elation muffled against a palm or the bend of a shoulder, Aoshi was revising his internal map of himself. Sagara knew that most of the work was already done; all that remained to be seen was whether it would be beneficial or not.

* * *

They finished quickly that night. It had been fast and dizzying, hard as the wall around Aoshi's eyes. Sagara would have called it desperate, but he knew better than that. More likely, Aoshi was just proud that he was getting the hang of this.

The younger man lay now on his back beside him, one arm crooked behind his head, the other idly tracing the curve of Sagara's thigh, running fleeting touches down to his knee, then back up again. Their clothes lay in a ring around the _futon_, hastily discarded, all but forgotten by now.

Aoshi shifted, then turned on his side, propping himself up on one arm. "Sagara, I'd like you to answer a question."

Sagara raised an eyebrow. He wasn't used to hearing that tone of voice. Hell, he wasn't used to hearing any tone of voice. Aoshi usually just rolled over - making sure he dragged as many of the blankets as possible with him - and fell asleep. "I'll try my best. What is it?"

"How long are you planning on staying here?"

That was a good question. One Sagara hadn't been expecting, but good nonetheless. "As long as you'll put up with me, I suppose. I know I don't have much to offer except for another pair of hands to help out around the place, but I'll do anything I can to..."

Aoshi leaned forward abruptly, kissing him into silence. "I was only curious. I just thought that since you're healed now, maybe there was somewhere you'd rather be."

"Healed..." Sagara echoed quietly. Then he shook himself, and recovered his good humor. "Are you sure about that? Maybe you should examine me?"

Aoshi's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. He stopped abruptly, seeming to feel some dormant stiffness in his limbs. He flopped onto his back once more. "Maybe in a few minutes."

Sagara laughed. "Right. Maybe in a few hours."

"Old man," Aoshi muttered, earning him a sharp poke to the ribs.

"Don't ever change," Sagara said.

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Good." Sagara shifted closer, resting his head on Aoshi's shoulder. His fingertips played over Aoshi's lips as though he expected to find a different expression there. They danced away in disappointment a moment later. "I just wanted to tell you... When I'm like this, with you, things seem quieter. More peaceful. I feel sometimes like we've been together a long time, like maybe I've always been here. Far away from violence, and deception."

Aoshi blinked. "What are you talking about now? I wonder sometimes what goes on in that head of yours."

"It's hard to explain." Sagara lifted his head a little, enough to brush his lips over Aoshi's cheek. "Never mind now. Let's get some sleep, all right? If you don't rest up, then how will you sneak out before I'm awake tomorrow morning?"

Aoshi's lips twitched, but fell away just short of a smile. Had Sagara been able to see it, he would have been entirely too pleased. "Are we married now or something?"

"Not a chance." But Sagara curled closer, looping an arm possessively around Aoshi's waist. "Don't tell me you're ready to settle down already." He kissed him again, on his neck this time. "Goodnight, Aoshi."

Aoshi reached up, laying a hand over the one on his chest. "Goodnight. Sagara."


	11. Chapter 10

**For War is Kind ~ Chapter 10**

Aoshi was still trying to clean the last of the blood from his face as he returned to the Aoi-Ya. It was late, but he had made the trek through lightless back alleys without falter or hesitation, without even needing to glance back to know that his comrades were behind him. The cuffs of his Oniwaban uniform were soaked with crimson, and the hair at his temples was dyed red, stiff so it feathered delicately away from his face.

It had been a while since they had needed to do something like this; he had forgotten how good it felt. How he had missed the heft of a blade in his hand, the hiss of steel against steel. Afterwards, he felt only as heavy as the blood that weighed down his clothing, as though that was the only thing holding him here anymore.

There was a raw friction burn between his right thumb and index finger from gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly, but other than that he was unhurt. There was nothing that could hurt him.

Dismissing his agents with a wave of his hand, Aoshi returned to the room he and Sagara had been sharing, unofficially, for the past two weeks. He was surprised to find it empty, but that didn't worry him. He leaned his _kodachi_ in the corner, and started for the far cabinet. The smell of slaughter would probably cling to him for a while, but for now a change of clothes would be enough. With a length of white cloth, he began to clean the blood methodically from his hands.

Behind him, the panel slid quietly open, and Aoshi glanced up briefly. His eyes thinned a little, almost pleasantly. There was something pleasant about returning to find Sagara here. But it was ruined when Sagara looked at him like that.

"Aoshi...?"

"I'm fine," he said briskly as he cleaned the blood from his face. "It's not mine, after all."

"I know," Sagara gasped. He snatched the cloth from his hand and began to wipe away the spots he had missed. "I know you're fine."

And yet he didn't seem very convinced of that. Aoshi reached up to swat his hand away; all this mothering felt too close and cramped after the liberation of the past hour. But at the moment they touched, Sagara's eyes went wide. The distance between them disappeared all at once, as he jerked Aoshi forward into his arms.

"What's the matter?" Aoshi asked, neither accepting nor rejecting the embrace. "You should have seen us, Sagara. We were amazing tonight."

"You sound so proud when you say that." Sagara's voice wavered a little, but he only tightened his grip as though he expected Aoshi to slip away, no matter how tightly he held him. "What happened?"

Aoshi squirmed a little. "It wasn't anything important," he said, measuring his words carefully. I stood to reason that Sagara would still be sensitive about things like this, after all. In the end, he would have to deal with it, but Aoshi saw no reason not to soften the transition as best he could. "We were hired to take out a small faction in the east district. They couldn't even touch us."

"Hired?" Sagara echoed numbly. "That doesn't seem like you…"

His arms slid away from Aoshi's shoulders, falling at his sides. He forced a thin smile. "At least you're all right. That's all that matters."

"Of course I'm all right. Do you really think there's anyone left in this era that can hurt the Oniwaban Ninja?" He stepped away, stripping off his blood soaked shirt and letting it fall to the floor. "At least we're still fighting. And I won't complain about the money."

Sagara flinched at the wet slap of fabric hitting the ground. He pressed a hand over his mouth, color draining from his face as the metallic smell of blood touched his senses. "Aoshi," he whispered. "The war is over..."

"And?" Aoshi hesitated a moment, then slipped out of his pants as well, tugging on a clean _yukata_. "The war may be over, but there have always been ninja. And there always will be, if I have anything to do with it." He faced Sagara at last, and paused. One eyebrow peaked as he tried to decipher the expression that twisted his face. "What's the matter? You're pale." He came forward, touching his cheek lightly. "You're not worried about me, are you?" He found the thought amusing, and perhaps a bit reassuring.

"That's not it..." Sagara murmured, turning his head to escape Aoshi's touch. His fingertips felt damp, as though they were still stained with blood and left faint spots of scarlet on his skin. "I'm sorry. Maybe I don't understand. Why..." He swallowed hard, sliding a hand back through his hair until his fingers curled at the nape of his neck. "Why anyone would want to fight when he doesn't have to. I know it's not a threat to you. But... all those people..."

Aoshi let his hand fall, backing away a step. He shook his head. "You really don't understand, do you? I do have to fight." He turned away, and returned to the cabinet against the wall. He rose a moment later with a vial of oil and fresh cloth and retrieved his sword, testing its weight in his hand as he said, "It's what we are. It's all we're good at."

"That's a lie," Sagara murmured. He backed off a step, as though Aoshi intended the blade for him.

"You think so?" Aoshi glanced at him briefly and then knelt down, balancing the sword in his lap. he dripped some of the oil onto the blade, and began to clean the blood from it.

"Yes! Aoshi..." But his voice felt heavy in his throat, and Sagara couldn't find all the words he'd meant to say. He pressed a trembling hand to his lips, seeking them there, but he couldn't speak to Aoshi like this, not when he was treating the blade in his hands with such care.

"Forgive me," he whispered, turning away. "I shouldn't have said anything. I'm glad you're safe. I'll leave you alone to get cleaned up."

"Sagara," Aoshi said sharply without looking up from his work. "Don't be so naïve. I know you knew this all before. It's what I am. And more than that, it's the last thing I can do for my men. They have nothing else, and neither do I. You understand that."

"I... I don't." Sagara shook his head. "I know that you only want to take care of them, but how can you? Like this...?"

This time, Aoshi did glance up. "I guess you really don't understand. But that's not my problem, is it? But you don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. And as for the people we kill… Don't worry about them, either. If it wasn't us, it would be someone else. There's nothing you can do about that."

Sagara's hands twitched into fists at his side, and he forced them to relax again before he spoke. He wasn't angry. He couldn't be angry because he had known this was going to happen. The only thing he hadn't anticipated was how close to the bone it was going to feel when it did. With each of Aoshi's careless words, he felt his old wounds were being torn open. Each loving glance Aoshi gave the sword in his hands seemed to say... they had all died for nothing.

Sagara's eyes flashed in the dim light. "How dare you? How dare you say things like that now?"

Aoshi looked up, admittedly stunned. He'd never heard Sagara talk like that before. "Like what?" He set his sword aside, pushing to his feet. "It's the truth and you know it. What's gotten into you?"

Sagara turned away so he wouldn't have to see the look in Aoshi's eyes. "You murdered them. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Aoshi's eyes narrowed. "If they had been stronger, I wouldn't have killed them, would I?"

Sagara did not know he was going to strike him until it was done. He lashed out, catching Aoshi on the jaw with an open-handed blow. Aoshi's head turned sharply with it, his lips parting a little in shock. Raking his hair back with one hand, Sagara turned to go.

Aoshi touched a hand softly to his cheek; the skin was hot beneath his fingertips. There would be a mark there in the morning, which would condemn him in a way the blood on his hands could not. Aoshi was baffled by the sudden violence dealt him, and by the fact that he was along here now.

"Sagara...?" He lifted his head, found the space before him empty, the panel that led to the hall still a little ajar, the sounds of footsteps, retreating. He gave chase. "Sagara... Sagara, wait!"

He caught him by the shoulder, turning the man to face him. "What the hell's going on?"

"Don't touch me!" Sagara recoiled, slapping his hand away.

Aoshi withdrew, cradling his hand. "You said you liked me, didn't you? And this is a part of me too. You've always know that, so don't act so self-righteous now."

"That's not it." Sagara sighed. "I just thought I wouldn't have to see things like this any more. I... don't like to fight, Aoshi. I don't like knowing how easy it is to end a person's life. I don't like knowing what they died for. Money or ideals... nothing really matters because it's all so insignificant when you have to see their eyes right before you bring the blade down." He lifted a hand to the bridge of his nose. "Maybe you can't understand, but..."

"Do you really think you have any right to say that now?" Aoshi said calmly. "You fought as well. You must have had your reasons. For peace, wasn't it? Everything for the people of Japan?"

"Shut up," Sagara whispered.

"Can you really tell me it didn't feel goof?" Aoshi continued, as though having not heard. "Every one of those Imperialist dogs you put in the ground was another obstacle you cleared aside. Every lie you willingly told, a stone to pave your path." He reached out, as though to pull the man back to him. "We're almost the same, you know. Only I've never claimed to have some higher ideal. I've never been so hypocritical, Sagara."

Sagara leapt back as Aoshi touched him. He looked up, and his eyes were hollow and condemned. "And I was wrong. Do you think a day goes by when I don't realize all over again how wrong I was? When I don't think... the only reason I lived was because death would have been too easy?" He reached out with a trembling hand, touching Aoshi's cheek. "You don't want to be where I am, Aoshi."

Aoshi tilted his chin back a little to escape Sagara's touch. "I see. But there really is nothing I can do about it. I'm in too good a mood tonight to let you ruin it, so I guess it's up to you to put yourself in order."

Without another word, he turned and started back toward their room.


	12. Chapter 11

**For War is Kind ~ Chapter 11 **

When he had been a child, Sagara would go to the oak tree that grew in the corner of their property for comfort. The branches swept low to the ground, and even near the top they were strong enough to hold him. When he was angry, confused, hurt, he used to climb it, as high as he could. The thought of such a strong, ancient life, such endurance and consistency always made him feel a little better. It humbled him, and if he had felt helpless, it reminded him that he was, but that it was all right.

He hadn't known all that then; he had only understood the implicit comfort the tree gave him, but as he fled the Aoi-Ya that night, Sagara at last thought he understood. And he wanted desperately for something so simple to be enough to reassure him once more. He looked up at the star-flecked sky, as if there might be answers there…

But the stars held no comfort for him, and when he stumbled a little on a raised paving stone, no one was there to steady him. He was alone, completely. As alone as he had been that night in the woods outside Shimosuwa…

He wanted guidance, but he understood too much already. About himself, and the way he had never been satisfied unless he was in the process of reshaping something. A boy in need of a father, a band of soldiers lacking a purpose, a man who wished only to live by his blade, a country that had never asked for his intervention… They had all been the same to him. Blank canvases upon which to work his art.

He had looked at Aoshi without really seeing him. All this time, he had only been the sum of what they could be together, and the implicit promise that Sagara might reclaim some small fraction of what he had lost. As he had gazed into Aoshi's blue eyes, he had only been able to see them overflowing with regret. As he had watched his stern unmoving lips, he had only been able to envision them parting around words of gratitude. As he traced long, delicate fingers, he had only been able to imagine how they would look clasped in repentance.

And when the moment had come, he had been unable to do anything but tremble before the stunning callousness of the truth: he had failed all of them. He thought that, wherever they were, surely they were all laughing at him now. Alone beneath the night sky, Sagara cringed as though he could hear them. He lifted his eyes, half expecting to be met with the faces of dead men crouched in the shadowy places between the buildings, grinning.

But he found only the high arch of the Kyoto city gates above him, and Sagara blinked, unsure of how he had gotten here. He had wanted to leave the city, abandon everything as though his shame could be forgotten so easily. Live in exile, somewhere so isolated that not even the past could find him.

He knew it wasn't possible, but he stood for a long time without looking back. And when at last he did turn towards the city's interior, it wasn't because he knew where he was going. But, in the end, there was only one place he could have ended up.

It was long past midnight by the time Sagara found his way back to the Aoi-Ya. He slipped inside quietly so as not to wake any of the inn's patrons and made his way down the hallway to his room. He had been hoping Aoshi would be asleep by now, but he wasn't surprised to find him awake, in an attitude of meditation, while he awaited Sagara's return.

Ducking his head to escape Aoshi's gaze, Sagara pulled the panel shut, knelt beside his _futon_ and began, with trembling hands, to arrange the sheets over it.

Aoshi was quiet for a long time, but at last he rose, crossing the floor to kneel at Sagara's side. He waited for the man to look up at him, and when Sagara didn't, he touched his arm gently. He cleared his throat, as if afraid his voice had become weak from disuse in Sagara's absence. "You were gone a long time. I was a little worried."

He waited for a response - three breaths and a dozen heartbeats - and then swallowed hard, leaning closer. "Sagara?"

The sound of his name seemed to wake him, and Sagara lifted his head. "You know…" he sighed, reaching out to brush his hand against Aoshi's cheek. "My family still has a little land outside of Tokyo. I was thinking… I'd like to see it again. Maybe something will still grow there."

"What?" Aoshi drew back in surprised, but a moment later, he shook his head fiercely, pressing his eyes shut as he ducked back into Sagara's touch. "What are you talking about? You're leaving?"

"No," Sagara said quickly, lowering his eyes. And he bit his lip, because he had always known he was horrible at lying. "Not exactly. I just want to see it. You can come with me if you like, and besides, I won't be far from here." His hand trembled. He just wanted to push him away… or maybe draw him closer.

Aoshi's eyes narrowed, and he placed a hand over Sagara's, his fingers tightening. "We both know that's not true. You're leaving because of me, aren't you?"

"It's not because of you…" And this time, he did pull back. He had to, or he would never have found the words. "It's the life I want, Aoshi. The life I've always wanted."

When Sagara turned away from him, Aoshi fell back as well, his shoulders bowed. "So, it is about me," he said. "This life doesn't suit you. If that's the case, then just say so. Because you know I can't come with you."

Sagara closed his eyes. Until this moment everything had been clear. He had known that he couldn't stay, that trying to would only be painful for both of them. Nothing could change that, not even regret. "You're right. I owe you the truth. Aoshi, I want to go. I have to, and I know you understand that."

"No. No, I don't." Aoshi leaned after him, pressing his palms awkwardly against Sagara's back. "Is that the way it works? You can't accept what I am, so you're leaving. That's pretty cowardly, don't you think?"

"Aoshi, stop it." With a sigh, Sagara turned, catching Aoshi's shoulders as he tried to pull away. He wanted to reassure him, but he couldn't. It would have been a lie. "You're right. I'm a coward. And I'm a liar, and I've been cruel to you."

This time, when Aoshi pulled away again, Sagara didn't try to hold on to him. He lowered his eyes, expecting – maybe hoping – Aoshi would just be angry with him. That he would should at him, or maybe just leave him here so that this could be over.

"Sagara…" he said instead, softly. "That's not fair." He took Sagara's collar in both hands, pulling closer and pressing his forehead to his chest. "You can't just walk away like that. Is that really all right with you?"

"It must be."

"Is it?" Aoshi demanded. "Because, it's not all right with me." He shuddered, as though with a sudden, sharp pain. "I thought I meant more to you than that."

"Aoshi, listen. I don't regret what we had. But it couldn't have lasted forever." He took hold of Aoshi's when he tried to pull away. "That's all. There's nothing else."

"Fine," Aoshi said. "Whatever you want to do is fine. I never needed you."

Sagara lifted a hand to the side of his face as though he had been struck. Those words hurt more than he would have liked to admit, because he knew Aoshi meant them. One of them, at least, wasn't in the habit of lying to his lovers.

"I never wanted to hurt you," Sagara said.

"You have a funny way of showing it." But there was no anger left in his words. "It's not fair. But if this is what you want, then I won't keep you here."

"I'm glad," Sagara said. He brushed Aoshi's hair back from his face, and then got to his feet.

"Sagara…" Aoshi sighed, shaking his head as he stood as well. "Wait. You can't leave tonight. It's late." He touched the bend of his elbow. "At least stay until morning."

Sagara turned slowly, catching Aoshi's hand in his own. He wanted this over with – wanted to leave this place before he forgot that he knew how to - but he really couldn't go anywhere before dawn. "All right. Thank you."

Aoshi watched him for a moment. "Good." He turned away. "You're one of mine now. The least I can do is look after you like I would one of them."

Sagara didn't move to follow him. "Where should I sleep tonight?"

Aoshi did not seem to hesitate. "Here, of course. With me." As if there was nothing more to explain, he knelt and began to arrange the futon they shared.

Sagara sighed. Staying for once more night struck him as an ultimately futile gesture, but he didn't want their last memories of each other to be of bitterness and anger. He came forward, catching Aoshi's shoulders as he rose once more, playing his fingertips down powerful biceps. Aoshi turned in his arms, and their lips met in a slow kiss. He would miss this, Sagara realized. Would miss the slow, determined gravity of Aoshi's kisses, the taste of his lips, his serious mouth.

"Aoshi," he whispered. "I want you to know…"

Aoshi darted forward into a kiss, cutting his words short. "Stop it. Don't say anything. Haven't I always been all right? I'll get used to it."

Sagara sighed as he held him close, feathering a hand down Aoshi's back to trace the tense muscles from his shoulders. But anything he could have possibly said was quickly becoming insignificant as he pressed slightly against Aoshi's chest, urging him to sink back to the mattress.

They shouldn't have been doing this; Sagara knew better than to think this would do either of them any good. But even if it was only going to make it harder, in the end, for him to walk away, he was running out of strength to resist. He felt as though already time was racing ahead of them, could see already years, in a frantic blur, before him.

And he pushed them aside, seeking another deep kiss.

Aoshi arched slightly beneath him, his _yukata _slipping from one shoulder. Sagara was quick to help him the rest of the way out of it, and he bent over him to nibble the uncovered skin just above his navel. Aoshi drew a sharp breath, fingers curling reflexively in Sagara's hair, guiding him up his body so their lips met in a fierce kiss.

And a year ago, this would have been enough to crumple his resolve, but something had changed in Sagara since then, grown hard and unyielding.

"Don't…" Aoshi murmured, slipping his hands beneath the collar of Sagara's _yukata_ and tugging it from his shoulders. "Don't watch me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like… this is the end."

Sagara caught his face between both hands, holding Aoshi still as he leaned in for a kiss. The man shifted beneath him, his thighs parting to glide over the outsides of Sagara's hips. "It is the end," he whispered against damp lips, swollen and slightly parted, dark as though with bruises.

Aoshi's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. Eventually, Sagara pulled away enough to slip a hand beneath the mattress, retrieving a small vial of oil. Before he could open it, Aoshi's hands fell over his and for an instant he could feel the sword-worn places between thumb and index finger, rough but familiar. For some reason they comforted him, and Sagara easily surrendered the vial.

"It's the end?" Aoshi echoed quietly as he spilled some of the clear fluid onto his fingers. "All right, then. Let's get it over with." He reached down between their bodies, curling one hand around Sagara's straining cock, slicking the oil over him.

"Don't be like that." Sagara reached down, catching Aoshi's hands around the wrists and pulling them up for a kiss. Releasing him, he ran his hand back through Aoshi's hair, parting it around pale blue eyes. And despite everything he saw reflected in Aoshi's eyes at that moment – all those regrets and uncertainties and questions without answers – Sagara managed to relax as he arched his hips forward, thrusting into him smoothly and without hesitation. This, at least, was his, and it always would be

Aoshi moaned, turning his face so the sound would be lost in the curve of Sagara's shoulder. Fingernails tightened against his back, reminding him to keep moving. With one hand braced against the mattress, the other curled loosely in Aoshi's hair, Sagara slid into him again, slowly establishing a rhythm. He gasped quietly against Aoshi's parted lips, and reached between their bodies, splaying his fingers against Aoshi's chest. Moving his hand downward, until he could feel an erratic pulse beneath his palm, until a ragged gasp spilled against the hollow of his throat. He wrapped his hand around Aoshi's shaft, felt him arch up into his touch.

Sagara stroked him in time with each thrust of his hips. He should have known better than to think it wouldn't be good.

Ahead of him, there was a long walk back to a half-remembered home. Behind him, his selfishness and the failure he could do nothing but bear. But somewhere in between, there was Aoshi, and a slow burn climbing the column of his spine, a spreading intensity in the pit of his stomach. For a single moment – a span of lost time – he knew where he was and he knew where he was going.

Beneath him, Aoshi's hips jerked sharply, and he moaned through clenched teeth. Warmth splashed against the curve of his abdomen, and Sagara only had time for a gasp of pleasant surprise before the spasm of muscle and the tightening of fingernails against his shoulder blades tore his climax from him.

He was still a moment, catching his breath and waiting for Aoshi to regain his, then he rolled off the younger man, propping himself up on one elbow. He passed the other hand idly over his stomach. It came away damp, and Sagara wiped his fingers as discreetly as possible on the edge of the mattress before turning back.

"Aoshi… you…" But Sagara gave up before he had even begun to put all he was thinking into words. His fingertips felt cold, unwieldy and bloodless, as he trailed them over Aoshi's temple and back through his hair. His vision was hemmed in black, and he blinked, trying to chase away the shadows. It wasn't working as well as it should have, but that was all right. He was almost grateful, because by this time tomorrow, he would be gone. And even now, in the quiet lull between moments, he felt no stirring of regret.

Beside him, Aoshi moaned quietly, as though waking from sleep. Sagara leaned in, dragging his lips over the curve of a jaw. "Are you all right?" He made no move to pull back. He wanted this for as long as he could have it, even if he couldn't entirely shake the memories of Aoshi's face stained in blood, his cold eyes when he had spoken.

Sagara shivered faintly.

"I'm fine. I'm…" Aoshi sighed, taking Sagara by the shoulders and easing him back. He held his eyes, and a smile flickered over his lips. Quiet and sad, like his own unspoken farewell.

Sagara was still a moment. Something about that expression was strange and heartbreaking, but it wouldn't be until later that he would realize it was because it was the only time he had seen Aoshi smile. "I just want you to know…" he said. "If you ever need anything. Anything at all. You'll know where to find me."

Aoshi closed his eyes. "All right. I'll remember that."

For a moment, Sagara watched him, and then, with a quiet sigh, turned onto his back. "You'll be all right."

Aoshi kept his arm around Sagara's shoulders, following him as he pulled away. "So will you." He reached down, finding the sheets and dragging them over them. As if trying to bind Sagara to him, just for tonight; just for these last few hours they had. "It's strange," he murmured, feathering his hand down Sagara's chest. "I think I'm starting to understand what you've been talking about all along."

"What's that?" Sagara murmured.

For a long time, Aoshi was quiet. As if, now that he'd brought it up, he couldn't think of the words to explain. "I'm not sure," he admitted at last. "It's just a feeling I have, something simple. It's calm… I feel calm."

Sagara stared up at the ceiling. "Good. I'm glad." And he really was, because Aoshi was right. Calm was the only way to describe it. A peace so perfect it hurt. "You'll find someone, you know," he whispered. "Someone who thinks the way you do. Who can…" He shook his head a little. "Someday…" he whispered against Aoshi's ear. "Someday it'll all make sense."

"I hope so." He wasn't sure if Aoshi sounded entirely convinced, but there wasn't anything Sagara could do about that. There was nothing left to say, and he didn't want to ruin their time together by trying.

Aoshi seemed to understand, and he tilted his face against Sagara's shoulder. "Goodnight."

Sagara sighed quietly at the abrupt announcement, but he was grateful. "Goodnight," he whispered, but he didn't close his eyes. He waited what felt like a long time, until Aoshi's breathing had grown steady; until he was certain he was asleep, before rising, extracting himself carefully from Aoshi's arms. Outside, he knew, the sky to the east would just be beginning to lighten; in another hour, the sun would rise. It would rise on a different world for both of them. In the lonely stillness of a dawn not yet broken, Sagara dressed.

His hands weren't trembling, but when he reached to push his hair from his eyes, his fingertips came away damp with tears. With a weak humorless laugh, he wiped the dampness away with his sleeve.

Without a sound, Sagara swept to his feet, slipped out into the hall without looking back.

~End


End file.
